


The Wild Ones

by KatZen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Supernatural Gen Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:44:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 56,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2613881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatZen/pseuds/KatZen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak, runaway, manages to find the wrong guy to pickpocket: a rogue angel of the Lord. The angel tells him that he can keep the world from ending, but only if he is willing to return to the family he ran away from and face off against angels and demons, including his angel's own righteously pissed off older brother.</p><p>Castiel can believe in angels, demons, Heaven and Hell, the Apocalypse and everything in between. But believing that someone like him could have a hand in saving the world...that's harder.</p><p>(Written for the SPN Gen Big Bang Challenge; story by KatZen, art by dollarformyname.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I am posting this from my phone, as my laptop officially died. I will be deleting the other version in favor of this complete version. Apologies for any formatting errors--blame it on iOS.

 

 

  
Written for the SPN Gen Big Bang. dollarformyname is my wonderful artist, please check out her LJ and tell her how awesome she is.

It started with a beautiful black car.

Castiel Novak, nineteen years old, twenty tomorrow, was not a thief. He was many things. He was a runaway, a high school dropout, he was homeless, he was hungry, and he was very, very scared. But not a thief.

Not yet.

The November air was cool on his skin, insufficiently insulated with thin layers from charity bins in shelters. The tan jacket that Brady had come up with provided some protection, but not much. (How Brady had come by the jacket, he didn't know. He didn’t ask, either.) His jeans were too tight and the soles of his shoes were starting their inevitable decline towards peeling off. His stomach ground out pain in protest of the twenty-four hours it had been since he had last eaten. His head hurt pretty much all the time.

These were things he thought about to steel himself.

“ _Look at that car,” Brady had said two days ago, when they were preparing for this. “Tell me what you see when you look at it.”_

_Castiel rolled his eyes, but answered, “It's in excellent shape. An expensive model, I think. Not actually brand new, but it looks brand new. Is this test necessary, Brady?”_

_Brady was all sharp lines and sharper focus, sticking his hands into the pockets of the jeans that perched precariously on his skinny hips. He had a predatory look about him, a hunger in his eyes as he examined the car. “You didn't notice the most important thing, so yeah, I guess it is.”_

_Castiel deflated. He hated failing these tests. He wasn't studying something he wanted to do—despite everything that had happened since he left home, he'd never been a thief before, not in such an explicit way. Credit card fraud, identity theft, these were skills his father had passed down to him. But going in and literally stealing things from another person seemed...different. Like a concession he had not wanted to make._

“ _The car's the only one in the parking lot, Cas. There's probably just one guy in that store, and he's loaded.”_

The beautiful black car was the only car in the lot, too.

It was not as expensive, he didn't think, as the car Brady had pointed out the other day. It was older, for sure, and perhaps that lent value to it, but it was so meticulously cared for that its owner clearly had the means to pour money into its maintenance.

A car like that might suggest an older driver, too. Perhaps someone who had owned the car for a long time, who was emotionally invested in its upkeep—someone, also, who wouldn't be able to keep up with Castiel if he had to run.

And it was the only car in the parking lot.

Brady was on his way. He'd be there soon, but this was an opportunity that might not wait for backup. There could be another car that pulled up beside the black one, and he'd be out of luck.

And he was so hungry.

Panhandling had worked for a long time. He knew he had been an attractive teenager. Gabriel, his older brother, had always complained about his big puppy eyes. He would say that deploying them during an argument was not in concordance with their rules of engagement. He knew from his classmates in the few years of high school he'd completed that they considered him handsome. He was slender, with a runner's build and muscles. That had all faded somewhat after a few months on the street, and _slender_ had become _thin_. He'd looked pitiful, young, vulnerable, and those things helped him, at first. People were more likely to pass him a few dollars when he sat on the sidewalk, or squeeze him in to an already-full shelter, or let him slide a couple of dollars short of the meal he'd just tried to buy, because _you poor boy, you poor kid_.

Now, he was obviously no longer a child—not a poor boy, poor kid. He knew he still had the same big, vulnerable eyes. He knew that superficially he looked very similar to the boy who'd run from his father (abandoned his brothers) four years ago, but he was a man now. A thin man, a young man, but a homeless man who had inconsistent access to a razor and whose clothes fit poorly and were frequently dirty. People passed him on the street, now, and averted their eyes rather than looking at him with pity. Shelters were full more often now, and meals cost exactly the amount advertised.

Credit card scams were hard for him, and always had been, though he made them work when he had to. But Brady said that he'd be better off learning to pick pockets anyway, because petty theft was only a misdemeanor as long as he didn't steal more than two hundred dollars at a time. Credit card fraud at the level he'd have to maintain was much more likely to be a felony.

But what Brady didn't seem to understand was that, yes, credit card scams would be more serious were he to get caught, but with pickpocketing and shoplifting he'd have to look at his victims. He would have to accept the fact that he was taking something from this person, this human being, and taking it for himself. That he was prioritizing his own needs above theirs.

He'd said that to Brady, and Brady had told him to shut up and nut up.

But Brady also said that that was a poor excuse, and that one way or another, he was taking money from someone and someone would have to pay for the motels he rented to get a full night's sleep and a shower, the food he bought or stole, everything he managed to acquire without buying it. Like accepting that the meat he ate came from an animal, Brady said, he might as well face his victims.

Castiel thought that an odd way to think of it, but he couldn't really argue the logic.

And here he was.

It was a convenience store connected to a gas station—small, poorly-lit, with one bored cashier who looked younger than Castiel. There were no cars buying gas, and the one car, the beautiful black car, parked in the lot, its owner surely inside the store. Then again, it was close to eleven o'clock at night, so perhaps the quiet wasn't so unusual.

Castiel pulled up the hood of his thin zipper-front hoodie and walked in.

The bell jangled jarringly, and Castiel walked quickly into the aisles. He knew the cashier had looked up, but when he checked the kid was back to his magazine, unconcerned. He released a shaky breath and walked through the candy aisle.

He spotted the car's owner almost immediately. It was almost impossible not to—the man was huge. Castiel wasn't close enough for a good comparison, but at a guess, he probably had just shy of half a foot on him. He had the kind of tousled hair you paid money for, which was a good sign, and his clothes fit well despite his tall, broad frame.

This was not ideal.

He'd been hoping for an older person—in his sixties, seventies, having bought the car as a young man and kept it up. Not this guy, who was perhaps thirty at most and looked like he kept himself in the same excellent condition as his car. This was not someone he could take in a fight, if it came to it. This was not someone he could outrun if he was caught.

But he was _so hungry_.

He walked behind the man and picked up a few boxes of macaroni, examining them as though there was anything substantial to compare between them. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at the man's back pocket.

His first thought was that it looked too good to be true, and so it probably was.

A thick brown wallet was halfway out of the pocket. Castiel could _see_ the money in it. Twenties, maybe even a hundred dollar bill, but the amount must have been in the hundreds. Far enough out that he could practically grab it without having to do a bump or anything. The smallest bit of distraction would be enough, and he'd have all of that money in his own hands.

He weighed that in his head against the reality of this man in front of him. He was rifling through cans of chicken noodle soup. Castiel could see the heavy muscles of his arms beneath the rolled sleeves of his plaid overshirt. Castiel's eyes flicked from the wallet to the man's arms, then back down. A dozen images of the ways this man could hurt him if he caught him flashed through his mind, followed quickly by a dozen things he could buy with the kind of money his wallet suggested. Hot food, a shower, somewhere to rest his head.

Movement outside the store, from where he'd entered, caught his eye. His heart sank. A young couple was walking towards the store.

He noticed the man turn his head toward the door, too. From what Castiel could see out of his periphery, he looked almost as annoyed as Castiel was.

Then, strangely, the couple paused in front of the door, looked at each other for a moment, brows furrowed, and walked away.

Castiel took a moment to breathe through his confusion.

He knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. He took the opportunity for what it was: an invitation.

He took a step toward the man and tripped, spilling the boxes of macaroni from his arms and landing on the ground with a grunt and an exaggerated hiss of pain.

The man was crouched next to him so quickly that Castiel barely realized he was moving before he was directly beside him, helping him gather the boxes back into his arms.

“You all right?” the man asked.

“Yes, thank you, I'm fine,” Castiel stammered, taking the boxes from him and tucking them under his right arm. “I don't even know what I tripped over. My own feet, probably.”

The man chuckled, but the look in his eye was unnervingly sharp. “It's late, you're probably tired. Need any more help?”

Castiel shook his head as he stood, muttering, “Thank you.” The man smiled and turned away from him. As he rose, as the pocket of the man's jeans loosened as he straightened, Castiel plucked the wallet out of it and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie.

His heart hammering in his chest so hard that he was sure everyone could hear it, he placed the boxes back onto the shelf. Don't leave right away, Brady had told him, but leave pretty quickly because you don't want to be there when he figures out his wallet's gone. So Castiel wandered the aisles for thirty seconds, forty-five. Then he walked to the door, his pulse throbbing so fast that his head felt like it would explode.

He reached the door, grabbed the handle, and pushed.

It didn't budge.

He felt his face heat— _what a time_ to misread the push/pull sign—and he pulled.

It didn't budge.

He stood by the door, trying to catch his breath, which was coming in very quick, shallow puffs that promised a panic attack soon. But he stopped breathing entirely when he heard heavy boots walking slowly behind him.

Oh _God_ , had the cashier seen something? Could they even lock doors this way in a convenience store? Why did the cashier care so much, anyway? Didn't he know that Castiel might have a gun? He didn't have one, but that was beside the point.

He turned around, trying not to be too suspicious, just trying to see what the cashier had done or if he was on the phone with the police. When his gaze found the counter, the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

The man, his mark, was standing at the counter with his fingers on the cashier's forehead. Castiel turned just in time to hear him say, “Don't be afraid.” But to the cashier, not to Castiel, which was good, because Castiel was _very_ afraid.

The cashier slumped forward on the counter, unconscious. All of the monitors fizzled and snapped to static.

The lights died.

The entire store was lit only by the streetlights outside, reducing the man to a huge silhouette against the farthest bank of windows.

He turned to Castiel.

The lights came on again with a buzzing sound. Like it had awoken him, Castiel rattled the door. He did not take his eyes off of the man, but pushed and pulled the handle with as much strength as he could muster. It was no good, anyway—the door didn't budge an inch. But the reflection in the dingy glass revealed that the man was coming closer.

The look in his eyes was intense, focused, but not angry, just...interested. Maybe a little eager, which turned Castiel's blood to ice in his veins. He seemed even bigger now, not hunched over to examine the cans but standing absolutely straight, his broad shoulders pulled back. His chin tipped up slightly, allowing him to look down on Castiel from an even greater height. He was studying him, puzzling him out, peeling back the few layers that lay above his panic. Altogether, it was not the expression that he was expecting from this giant of a man whose wallet he'd just lifted.

The man's voice was softer than he was expecting as he said, “I think you have something of mine.”

Oh, God, he still had the wallet.

His fingers fumbled with the smooth leather in his pocket. He almost dropped it, but he grabbed it with both hands and held it out in front of him: an offering, an olive branch.

“I'm so sorry, I'm so—I've never done this before. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm so sorry, here, please, everything's still in it.”

Footsteps behind him, outside, alerted him to someone else's presence—another man, a trucker, walked up and stopped at the same point as the couple earlier.

Castiel did not want to go to jail. More witnesses were not in his best interest toward that end. But if there was another person in the convenience store, maybe he wouldn't get beaten to a bloody pulp before the police were called.

But this man was not to be his savior. Like the couple before him, he looked mildly confused, then walked away. He never made any indication that he saw Castiel at all.

Castiel drew in a gasping, ragged breath and turned back to the man he'd stolen from. He held out the wallet again. “Please, just take it, I swear everything's still in it.”

“I believe you,” the man said, but didn't move to take the wallet. “But I don't want it back, Castiel.”

Castiel stared at him. He slumped back against the unmoving door.

“How did you know my—”

“If you want the money, it's yours,” the man said.

That stopped Castiel, who shook his head wordlessly. The man smiled, walking forward slowly, step by inexorable step and Castiel pressed himself harder against the door that still refused to open.

The man was maybe two steps away when Castiel ducked around him and full-out ran to the other side of the store, to the other set of doors. He slammed against them with his whole weight—

—but of course, they were as firmly shut as the ones he'd been at before. All he got for his efforts was a searing pain in his shoulder.

His mark, for his part, looked disappointed, but not surprised. “I'm not going to hurt you, Castiel,” he said, walking toward him again. His hands were open and his fingers were spread, as though Castiel thought he'd need a weapon to hurt him. As though those hands couldn't do a good enough job on their own. So despite his words, Castiel cringed against the door when he got close, shut his eyes.

“There's six hundred dollars in the wallet.”

Castiel opened his eyes.

“And I'm not kidding. All yours, on one condition.”

Here it was.

“I want you to come to my motel with me. To talk. That's all. Talking.”

Castiel laughed humorlessly. “Please. Nobody gives someone six hundred dollars to come _talk_ at a motel. And I'm not a prostitute, anyway.”

The man smiled. There was a strange fondness in the expression. “I know what you are and aren't, Castiel. And I'm not asking you for sex.”

“Then take your wallet back, please, and let me go.”

The smile faded but wasn't gone completely, just turned sad. The man sighed.

“I really need to talk to you, Castiel. I need you to come with me.”

Castiel shook his head. “No. I don't want to come with you.”

Now the smile was gone.

“Castiel.”

“I'm giving you your wallet back. I'm apologizing. I'm not going to be any more trouble, so please, let me leave.”

The man pinched the bridge of his nose. Castiel swallowed hard. The lights flickered above him, just faintly, just a buzz and a dimming before they came back, but it only heightened his sense of dread.

He wasn't going to leave the store, not without paying for what he'd done.

“You have to come with me, Castiel,” the man said. “Or I'm going to have to call the police.”

Castiel squared his jaw and tried not to look too scared. “Okay. Call the police. I have a clean record.”

“Do you?” The man raised an eyebrow. “Or do you think that it's possible that the police could also potentially find evidence linking you to felonious levels of  credit card fraud? You could be looking at up to ten years in prison, Castiel. Ten years in prison and a lifetime with a felony on your record. Is that better than coming with me?”

“I'm _not_ a prostitute.”

The man grit his teeth together. His right hand clenched into a fist, and the lights sparked. Castiel looked up, panicked, then back to the man, his heart rate doubling.

“I'm not asking you for that.”

“No, you're _blackmailing_ me into it,” Castiel said, hoping that it sounded fierce and not as desperate and fearful as it sounded in his head. “I'll tell the cops you're trying to solicit, I'll tell them—”

The man took another step towards him and Castiel held his breath.

“Please come with me,” the man said.

And Castiel understood that while it was couched as a request, it was not one.

He ducked his head and nodded.

The man led him outside, the doors parting easily for his hands. Castiel had a sudden urge to make a run for it. Rationally, of course, he realized that running was not only probably futile but almost certainly ultimately detrimental. If he cooperated, maybe he'd suffer less in the end. If he started this by trying to escape, he would probably be sorry. In fact, all of this attitude he was giving was likely to end up with him being sorry, regardless.

The thought soured his stomach, so he looked up at the man—his kidnapper? his mark?—and waited until he looked down.

“I'm sorry,” Castiel said quietly. “I'm really, really sorry.”

He hated how much his voice trembled.

The man hesitated, then smiled sadly. “I know,” he said. “It's going to be okay. I promise.”

Castiel had had many promises made to him and broken before, and he knew that it wasn't something you could outrun.

So when the man opened the door to the beautiful black car that had led him to its owner like a moth to the flame, he climbed in and sat quietly.

Once situated, he glanced in the rear view mirror. He saw Brady in the parking lot, staring after them with horror in his eyes as they drove away.


	2. Chapter 2

  


  
The city crawled by as the man drove Castiel in the direction of a motel he'd been to before, that he'd stayed at one time when he was flush. He said nothing—just watched the man out of the corner of his eye, taking stock of him. He made note of the way the man scanned their surroundings without pause, the way his lips moved now and then in a slow and rhythmic way that Castiel intuited had little to do with any language he knew. He watched the quiet tension in his shoulders; it ran all the way down to his hands as they gripped the steering wheel. Everything about him hinted at danger. Castiel wondered who he was. Enforcer? Driver? Drugs, though, probably. There was something about him that made the hair on Castiel's arms stand on end.

Finally the covert staring caught the man's attention. He glanced over, canting a half-smile at Castiel as he pulled into the lot. Castiel looked away immediately, but of course it was too late.

"You familiar with this place?" he asked.

Castiel tried to find the trick in the question.

"Yes." That elicited an unreadable expression on the man's face, so he tried, "Yes, sir."

It was only half as snide as he'd been aiming for, and actually ended up sounding pretty respectful and no small amount afraid. He couldn't decide whether or not he was okay with that.

The man's brows furrowed. "That's not..." But he trailed off as he pulled the car into a parking spot. He stopped the car and stepped out. Castiel struggled for a minute with the door, but the man came around and opened it for him before he could get it. Castiel froze, startled, but shoved his hands into the pockets of his thoroughly inadequate jacket, got out, and walked past.

He followed the man into the room in silence, waiting for some kind of cue. The man turned on the lights and locked the door behind Castiel, then went to the table and sat at it.

Castiel stilled at the door.

The man nudged the other chair out from the table with his foot. "Have a seat.”

Castiel didn't move.

The man frowned. “Castiel, come on. You're already here. You want the six hundred? Come and _sit_.”

“I want you to tell me what you want,” Castiel said, more steadily than he'd anticipated. The door wasn't fully flush with the ground and cold air chilled the soles of his feet, partially exposed by his disintegrating shoes.

"I want you to sit," the man said, with a firm tone that could either have been him talking to Castiel like an errant child or forcing himself to calm down; neither sounded like a good option. "And talk to me. I want you to hear me out. And I want you to breathe before you pass out."

Castiel obeyed the command without thought, realizing as soon as he did that he hadn't been breathing. On shaking legs he walked over to the small table and sat down, keeping his eyes on the man the whole time. He crossed his arms over his chest. Once he'd sat down, he stared at the table.

He was going to die, he realized with a detached sort of calm. He had, as an estimate, two hours. Maybe three. More if he wasn’t lucky, less if he was.

Yes, pickpocketing had been a very good career decision for him. He was going to be murdered the first time he tried it.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the man said. Castiel startled at his voice. His expression was somber, his hands spread in a way that Castiel was sure he thought would appear harmless. It only served to emphasize how big they were, the ropy muscles of the forearms they led to. "Hey. I won't. It's okay."

Castiel didn't say anything. He wasn't totally sure what he could say that would make it _less_ likely that this man would murder him, so he was going to err on the side of silence.

Castiel was concentrating on keeping his breathing steady. The man was staring at him, like maybe the power of his surprisingly puppy-eyed gaze would force words out of Castiel.

It didn't, though.

He looked like he was about to say something when a knock came at the door.

The man stilled.

"Don't move."

The tense command resonated weirdly in the small room, and Castiel didn't think of disobeying.

The pounding on the door grew more insistent as the man got up and crept towards it. Castiel heard a familiar voice: "Cas?"

Brady. Castiel felt his mouth slip open in surprise, but that cautious, wary expression on his kidnapper's face didn't falter.

Brady's voice came again. "Cas!"

The man walked back to Castiel, and his voice was low and insistent as he said, "Stay here. Get under the table. I don't care what you see or hear, you don't move, do you understand?"

"That's my friend." Castiel had to try, even though he already knew he wasn't going to win this fight. He could hear the preemptive defeat in his own voice.  "Look, he was supposed to be my lookout. He's just worried about me. I'll tell him I came willingly. I'll tell him to go.”

He expected one of a few possible expressions to cross the man's face: anger, irritation, maybe amusement. Not grief. Castiel blinked hard and tried to keep his breaths long and slow when the man said, "That's not your friend, Cas."

It was stated as fact. _That is_ not _your friend._ Castiel felt his hands begin to shake. Whatever this was, he was unprepared.

“What?” he said, his voice shaking, too. “No, no, no, sir, no, I know he's not a good...influence, but he's my friend. He'll leave you alone. Just let me explain to him. Please, sir.”

The man's stepped into his space and Castiel retreated quickly, allowing himself to be guided beneath the table. 

"Cas, stop." He ducked his head when the man gestured for him to do so, and pulled himself more fully beneath the furniture. "Please. I promise I'll keep you safe. Just do as I say."

The command was as impossible to fight as the locked doors, so Castiel curled up under the table, and glanced up.

Oh.

There was a chance that the occult symbol painted on the underside of the table wasn't drawn in blood. But Castiel knew what blood smelled like, and this smelled like blood. Human blood.

He gave a hiccuppy gasp and he stared up at the man, only to find the man staring at him, too. His throat was not amenable to the begging he wanted to do, but evidently his eyes were doing the job because the man said, "It's mine. Okay? The blood is mine. I can't ask you not to be scared and I can't ask you to trust me but I have to ask you to obey me right now. Please, Cas. I'll explain everything, I swear, just do as I say for the next fifteen minutes and I swear to you—you'll be fine."

Fifteen minutes was a long time. A lot could happen in fifteen minutes that could leave him very much not fine afterward. Still, he didn’t like his odds of getting away from this giant who painted motel furniture with his own blood. So he settled back down, hugging his knees to his chest and nodding. The man smiled at him, an expression Castiel could tell was supposed to be reassuring. He unfolded himself to go to the door.

Brady was banging on it, now, shouting Castiel's name more and more frantically. He could picture his friend’s panicked face, the way he bit his lip when he was anxious. Brady wasn't a twitchy kind of person, and he didn't know that Castiel hadn't come with this man of his own free will. It made him wonder if there was something Brady knew that he didn't.

Then he saw something shiny and sharp slide out from the man's sleeve. He stifled a cry, managing to turn it into a whimper as it escaped his lips.

The man heard him. Castiel knew he did. But he didn't stop his progress toward the door, unlocking it with his free hand while keeping the blade behind him. He opened the door.

"Yes?"

"Cas!" Brady tried to shoulder his way past the man, who blocked him easily with an outstretched arm.

"Brady, go, I'll be okay," Castiel cried, shaking with fear and adrenaline. "Please, Brady, go."

"I think you heard him." The man rocked his weight from one foot to the other. Castiel saw the dim yellow light from the lamp reflecting off of that vicious blade. "Go."

Brady's eyes were wide with what looked like terror as he stared at Castiel past the barricade of the man's immovable arm.

"Cas, please—come with me. C'mon, Cas, let's get out of here."

The man shifted his grip on the blade. “I’m pretty sure I said go.”

Brady shoved the man, hard, and it shocked Castiel to see that it worked, if only a little. The man staggered back a step, enough for Brady to slip through and get closer to Castiel, who was shaking his head frantically. Brady ignored him and knelt just beyond the lip of the table. "Come with me, Cas, come on, please. It'll be okay, just come with me."

Castiel couldn't make his tongue work fast enough to warn Brady as the man swept upon him. His towering form folded down until he pressed against Brady's back, the blade resting along Brady's spine.

"Don't make me do this in front of him.” The man’s voice was a low growl, as if Castiel couldn't hear from two feet away.

Brady froze, though for a moment it seemed like he was going to take a swing. His fist was clenched and everything, though he very deliberately unclenched it before he spoke. "I'm sorry, sir, please don't hurt me, just let me take my friend and—"

Castiel saw Brady jolt as the blade dug into his skin a little more. "Cut the crap. You lost. Take it like a man—or whatever—and report back. But leave him alone."

Brady began to cry, then, loud keening noises that Castiel had never heard before, and he’d heard Brady cry many times.

It sounded forced. It sounded fake.

He frowned. He started to creep out from under the table, but a single sharp glance from the man who was holding a dagger to his friend's brain stem was enough to stop him.

"Please, sir,” Brady wept, “please, I've got money, you can have it, just please don't hurt Cas, please don't—"

" _Christo_ ," said the man. 

Brady flinched at the man’s words—and for just a second Castiel would have sworn his eyes blacked out—pupil, iris, whites and all.

He stared.

Brady stared back, and then all the fear drained from his face—and he began to _laugh_.

"What are you going to do? Kill me? In front of Cas?"

"Brady, please, just _go_." Castiel turned his face to the man. "Please, _please_ let him go, I'll do whatever you want, I don't even want the money, just don't hurt him.”

Castiel dug the wallet out of his jacket pocket and threw it out from beneath the table. The man and Brady both ignored it, so he tried again: “I don't know what got into him but just kick him out, he'll leave you alone, he won't go to the police."

Nothing changed in the flinty coldness of the man's face. He didn't even look up from Brady to acknowledge Castiel's words.

"I don't want to do this in front of Cas.” He was loud enough now to make it clear that he had given up on caring whether Castiel could hear him. "But I will protect him."

"Stuck on him already, _Sam_?" Brady’s words were sharp and his smirk was— _off_ , somehow, cruel in a way Castiel had never seen before. He looked to the man when Brady spoke, and saw that his eyes narrowed at the name, but he didn’t dispute it.

How did Brady know him?

"He does beg pretty, doesn't he? Just wait til you _really_ get going, start hurting him. I've heard it, heard him pray for the hunger, the cold, to stop. Does that do it for you? The prayer?"

"Brady," Castiel murmured, confused, but the man—Sam?—said, "Shut up," and even though he was pretty sure the man was talking to Brady, he shut up anyway.

Brady tilted his head slowly around so that the dagger now brushed the space behind his ear. He grinned up at Sam.

"Am I wrong? What else could this be about? Because last I heard, you'd taken off from Upstairs without a word. You shouldn’t have a horse in this race."

Sam’s shoulders drew tight and his upper lip twitched into a snarl. “That’s enough."

Brady turned his eyes to Castiel. "You should've run with me when I knocked him the first time. He's a rogue, Cas. He will take you apart until you've forgotten the words to beg for death."

Castiel slid his hand out from under the table to touch Sam's leg, pleas on his lips, when Brady grabbed his hand and _yanked_.

For another underfed teen, Brady had a hell of a grip, Castiel thought, as though from a distance.

Three things happened in rapid succession.

Brady's eyes turned black again, Sam's eyes began to glow, and he slapped his palm against Brady's forehead, slamming him down against the ground so hard they both slid several feet.

Then the room was filled with light so bright that Castiel cried out in pain before he threw a hand up over his eyes. His cry was drowned out by the sound of Brady's scream of agony.

Then everything went dark and quiet.

Castiel peered out from below a cautious shading hand and saw Brady's body, smoke trickling in tendrils from his ruined eye sockets, still and pale.

_That's not your friend._

All he could see, though, was the body of the boy who had kept him warm, showed him where the better shelters were. Who showed him where it was relatively safe to hide from a storm when the shelters were full, held him through the first nights of sobbing terror when he realized that he was really, truly without a home.

All he could see was the body of the only person who’d cared for him in the last four years.

"Brady," he gasped, scrambling out from under the table on his hands and knees, crawling over to the body of his friend. "Brady, Brady, please, no, no—"

"Cas," Sam began, from somewhere behind Castiel, which, most times, would be enough to panic him, but right now Brady was—Brady was—he wasn't moving. He needed help. Oh God, he needed a hospital.

"Come on, Brady, please, breathe." Castiel sobbed, prodding at his only friend's unmoving rib cage. "Brady, please, please, don't do this."

"Cas." Sam's voice was gentle, but firm.

Castiel ignored him nonetheless.

"Castiel, come on, we have to—" 

"You _killed him_ ," Castiel screamed, turning to him finally. Sam looked miserable, but not shocked, not horrified, not sorry. "You killed Brady, you _asshole_ , you killed him, you killed him, he was my only friend and you _killed him_ —"

"That wasn’t your friend." Castiel continued to cry, so Sam frowned and continued. "He probably hadn't been for a long time. I'm sorry, Cas, I wish he hadn't found us, but this is too important for—"

"What's so important?" Castiel swiped at his eyes furiously. "I would have gotten rid of him, I would have come back, you didn't have to—you didn't—" He collapsed back into sobs, head resting on Brady's leg.

Then Sam _touched_ him, a hideously gentle hand on Castiel's shoulder blade, and Castiel snapped.  
  
He staggered back a few steps and pulled a knife out of his boot—the knife Brady gave him the first night they met. He'd never used it.  
  
The knife was sharp and glinted dangerously in the light of the room—not as bright as Sam's dagger, or whatever it was, but it had an edge to it. It promised a chance. So when Sam approached him, Castiel tightened his grip on it.

"Back. Off.”

"We have to go, Cas," Sam said, as if Castiel wasn't pointing a knife at him, as if Brady wasn't lying dead just behind him. "Now."

"I'm not going anywhere else with you.”

Sam's eyes darkened and Castiel felt a shiver of dread run down his spine, but didn't lower the knife. Sam’s gaze flicked to it once, but the expression that passed across his face was more sadness than fear.

"Don't fight me, Cas, please." It almost sounded like a request.

"Leave me alone!" he snapped, but Sam gripped him by the wrists and he pulled back, his joints protesting. "Let me go!"

"Stop fighting me." Sam’s voice betrayed no strain at all.

Castiel thought rather hysterically that _fighting_ was a generous characterization of his flailing. The grip around his wrists was like iron cuffs.

"Cas. Stop."

Reckless with grief and fear, Castiel threw his head forward into Sam's nose. It hurt like _hell_ and he was pretty sure he heard a crack that wasn't from the man's face, but it startled him enough to release Castiel's right hand.

Which he then used to slam the knife into Sam's heart.

He felt the resistance of muscle and sinew against the blade as it sank in, but it did sink in. His hands trembled and his ears rang as blood raced through his veins at a breakneck pace. He'd never done this before. He'd never wanted to. Four years ago he'd been such a good kid.

They both froze.

Then, with this awful blood-curdling look of apology, Sam slid the knife out of his chest and said, "I'm so sorry, Castiel.”

He pressed two fingers gently against Castiel's forehead.

Castiel managed one more sob before he went under.


	3. The Wild Ones: Chapter Two (point five)

  


  
The bright blue sky told Castiel that it was early afternoon (his birthday, he thought, in a distant sort of way) when he opened his eyes. Sam was hovering over him, his brows drawn together in what looked like concern. His expression shifted to an unhappy smile when he saw that Castiel was awake.

Castiel was wondering at the fact that he was still alive when Sam said, “Happy birthday, Castiel.”

It was still strange, hearing his name from this man's lips—and _Castiel_ , not just _Cas_ , as everyone he'd met since running away had known him. It hurt, to be called that name by this stranger. He couldn’t help the tears when they started, and once they’d started, he couldn’t stop them for several long minutes.

When he snapped out of it, he saw Sam sitting to the side of the motel room—a different motel room than the one Brady had died in, he thought—with his gaze averted. Like he was embarrassed.

He realized very quickly, as he pulled himself off of the bed—

_The most comfortable bed he'd felt in years._

—that the prickling dread in his spine meant that whatever courage his shock and grief had lent him last night was gone, so it was in a very small voice that he asked, "Your name is Sam?"

Sam lifted his head, startled.

"Yeah," he said, cautiously. There was a strange earnestness in his voice. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m Sam.”

Castiel nodded wearily. He sat up, rubbing his still-damp cheeks with the heel of his hand. He couldn't think very clearly. The after-effects of his morning crying jag were making his head feel like it was stuffed with cotton.

"What are you going to do to me?" he asked. "Are you going to kill me?” He faltered. “Like you killed Brady?"

Sam ran his hands over his face and sighed.

"No. No, I'm not here to kill you."

"Just Brady," Castiel clarified.

"One, I didn't come here to kill _anybody_. And two, that was not Brady.”

Castiel flinched away at his tone.

Another sigh.

"Castiel, come on. You can't tell me that you didn't notice _anything_ off about what happened last night. Anything strange."

"I noticed you murdering my friend in cold blood.” Despite the rage he felt he really was entitled to, Castiel couldn't muster up much heat in his voice.

Sam frowned. "Is that really the weirdest thing about last night? Is that the weirdest thing you remember?"

Castiel hesitated. No. It wasn't. But he had really been hoping that the stabbing thing had been a stress-induced nightmare.

But Sam was waiting. "I stabbed you," he said.

Sam looked almost relieved, which was not a reaction Castiel would ever have expected those words to elicit.

"And you didn't die. Or bleed. Or anything."

Sam looked expectant. “And?”

Castiel thought back to the night before, to the helpless rabbit fear of the convenience store, and the heart-stopping terror of the motel room. He blinked back tears.

“And you were the one who locked the doors in the store, somehow. And you knocked that cashier out just by touching him. And you kept all those people away from the store.” _You trapped me and you kidnapped me_ , he didn't say.

Sam waited.

"What are you?" Castiel asked, feeling that it was expected of him.

"I'm an angel of the Lord," Sam replied, as though it made sense. "And your friend, Brady? He'd been possessed by a demon. He was dead when he got to the room, Castiel. He'd probably been dead a lot longer than that."

"You realize how crazy that sounds," Castiel said. "I mean, that's—I know a lot about crazy, and that sounds pretty crazy."

"Crazier than you and me, having this conversation, the morning after you stabbed me?" Sam kept his voice gentle, but it didn’t help: Castiel’s heart still began to race. "And when...when I killed the thing in Brady's body, what weapon did I use?"

"That dagger." Castiel knew he was wrong, but really wanted to deny the sick twist of fear that came with the realization that he _didn't_ know how Sam had killed Brady.

Sam was having none of it. “Castiel."

"I don't know." Castiel let out a shaky breath. "I didn't see."

There was silence for a moment. Sam produced a plastic shopping bag from behind himself. "I got you some soup. Chicken noodle. And a few bottles of water. I figured you'd be hungry."

"I'm not," Castiel lied.

Sam ignored him anyway. "I need to work. You can eat whenever. Or not. Your call."

With that he stood up and stretched.

Castiel shivered a little at the reminder of how outmatched he was.

Sam went to the bed and pulled some large books out of a duffel, along with a newspaper and an ancient laptop. He turned the computer on, opened two of the books and the newspaper, and proceeded to act like Castiel wasn't there.

Castiel stared at him for a few minutes, waiting for something to happen. He did his best to ignore the gnawing pain in his stomach for a few more. Eventually the futility and foolishness of refusing food when offered became too much for him. He took the soup out of the bag.

He kept his movements small as he looked around the room for the microwave. He was sure that Sam could tell him where it was, but the angel was working, and he didn’t want to interrupt. More than that, he didn’t want to interact with him more than necessary. In the end it took him longer than it needed to to find everything—microwave, spoon, bowl to heat the soup in—but he did it without ever talking to Sam, which he counted as a victory.

The soup was filling, tasted good, warmed him. He hadn’t had chicken noodle in a long time, and it brought back memories of being somewhere safe, somewhere he felt at home. It made tears well in the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away furiously; the last thing he needed was to cry again in front of Sam.

This wasn’t home. This was a run-down motel in the middle of—well, he hoped it was still in the middle of Pontiac. He’d been out and he couldn’t tell how long, but at least four or five hours—probably more. Certainly long enough for Sam to move him somewhere else. The thought soured the spoonful of soup that was in his mouth.

This wasn’t home. He wasn’t safe. He’d been kidnapped by some crazy person twice his size and easily that much stronger than him. A bowl of chicken noodle soup and a few bottles of water didn’t change that. If Sam thought he was that easily bought, he was mistaken.

In the end he ate the soup quickly and perfunctorily, doing his best not to enjoy it. Enjoying it seemed, somehow, like one concession too many.

Once the soup was gone and he'd drunk most of a bottle of water, there was nothing left to distract him. Sam was still on the bed, eyes rapt on the laptop screen, fingers moving quickly over the keys.

Castiel shifted slightly. Sam raised his head, but he didn’t glance over and didn’t say anything.

Castiel took that as permission to get up. He walked over to the bed and reached into the duffel, pulling out the thinnest book he could find there.

_Of Revelations_ , the cover read. On it was an intricately-rendered painting depicting what Castiel knew to be the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He swallowed hard, and sat back down at the foot of the bed Sam was resting on.

“It’s not great.” Sam’s voice, quiet though it was, sounded sharp after the silence. Castiel startled so hard he banged his head against the bed frame. Without looking away from his laptop, Sam leaned forward, brushed his fingers against the back of Castiel’s head.

The pain faded immediately.

“The author was on a hell of a lot of drugs. She was also a prophet—the genuine article. So if you’re able to parse through the crazy, she’s got a couple of gems.”

"This is a book of prophecy?" Castiel winced at his slip. He stared at the gory cover of the book.

"Like I said. In part." Sam closed the laptop and lifted the book out of Castiel's hands, flipping through its worn pages. "Got some good stuff about the Whore of Babylon in here. Stuff about the Horsemen is less reliable, much more...hallucinogenic.”

"Is it gonna hurt, when you kill me, or do you think you can do it quick?" Castiel blurted out, then flushed dark red. Sam put the book down and sighed. He rubbed a hand over his face.

"Look, kid, I told you I wasn't going to kill you, and I'm not. I get that you don't trust me. I really do. But I haven't tried to hurt you."

"Maybe you're toying with me." Castiel was horrified to hear the words come out of his mouth but _not_ saying anything somehow seemed worse. Not that he necessarily _wanted_ Sam to admit that he was planning to make lampshades from Castiel’s skin, but this calm before the storm was making his stomach sour. "I don't know what serial killers are into."

“What is it going to take to prove to you that I am what I say I am?” Sam demanded. Castiel shrank back at the frustration in his voice. “You can’t explain what you saw. You can’t explain it because there is no other explanation.”

“You’re an angel.” Castiel couldn’t keep the skepticism out of his voice, hard as he tried.

Sam’s lips thinned in a frown. He swung himself off of the bed.

Castiel jerked in panic and skidded to the wall, although he couldn’t say why he thought pinning himself without escape was a good idea. He just viscerally hated the idea of Sam being able to come up behind him.

Sam, for his part, paused and took a step back when he saw Castiel’s terror. He settled on crouching in front of him a few feet away, legs bent and hands spread in front of his knees.

“Castiel,” he said softly. Castiel stared up at him. “I know your life’s been hard. And you haven’t had much use for faith. I know. But right now, a little faith might come in handy.”

With those words all of the lights in the motel room flickered. Castiel looked around frantically to try to figure out what was going on, until his eyes landed on the wall behind Sam.

Behind Sam and to his sides and above him. The entire room seemed engulfed in shadow, but a very specific shadow.

The shadow of massive wings.

Castiel gasped and brought his hands up to his mouth.

They were...stunning. _Gorgeous_. Awesome, in the truest sense of the word. And as Sam’s shoulders rolled back and the wings flexed, moved, drew up, fanned out, Castiel’s strict Catholic upbringing came back to him in a rush. He folded his hands and scrambled down to his knees.

“Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy Name. Thy--”

“Hey, that's enough.” Sam pulled his hands down and apart, as though it severed any connection the prayer had begun. “That's not necessary.”

With the prayer taken away from him, his mind juddering to a halt like a needle over a record, Castiel was speechless. Sam's hands were so warm around his wrists, like furnaces. There was a part of him that was utterly terrified to have something so powerful—something _celestial—_ touching him. Like it would burn the taint of his sin from him, and what would that leave behind?

But Sam's eyes were gentle, and worried, and behind that was something that looked almost like fear. He said, “You're okay, Castiel. Hey. You're okay.”

And Castiel thought, _how can he touch me?_

Sam huffed a laugh, small and humorless. He leaned back, releasing his restraining grip. “Don't be afraid. I'm not here to hurt you.”

“I tried to steal from you,” Castiel said, and of course those would be the words to finally make it past his tight throat. “I tried—I tried to _steal_ from you.”

“You were hungry.” Sam said it like it made perfect sense. And it had, in Castiel's head, at the time.

It had, before he'd realized that the being that owned that beautiful, vicious siren of a car was an _angel_.

Sam wasn't done. “You were hungry, and I'd stuck my wallet halfway out of my pocket.”

Castiel opened his mouth to say that it was ludicrous to blame Sam for his wallet falling out, for Castiel taking that as an invitation, for simply being there for Castiel to steal from, but he closed it.

Sam didn't say that the wallet _was stuck_. He said that he had stuck it halfway out.

It _had_ been an invitation.

“You wanted me to take it?” he asked softly.

Sam tensed slightly, like he was afraid that Castiel would bolt and he'd have to run after him, but he said, “Yes. I needed a way to get in touch with you.”

“And just saying _hey, Castiel_ wasn't good enough?” Anger rose, hot and thick, in Castiel's chest, drowning some of the awe, some of the fear. “You had to set me up to steal from you? Did you want an excuse to kidnap me? Is that what it was? I had to give you a reason?”

Sam frowned. “First of all, you could have _not_ stolen it.”

“I don't know if I believe you,” Castiel said. “Could I have just walked out? Would you have just let me go? Because I tried to give you your wallet back, I tried to say I was sorry, and you trapped me in that store until I agreed to go with you. It didn't seem like I had much of a choice.”

Sam's lips were pressed together. The tension in his body changed. He no longer looked like he was about to spring forward to stop Castiel from leaving, but like he was restraining himself from saying something.

Which was good, because Castiel wasn't done. “Why? Why did you have to trick me? Why did you have to take me and kill Brady?”

“If I had asked you to come with me to my motel room, you would have done what you did anyway: tell me you weren't a prostitute and leave.”

Sam sounded flat, factual, but Castiel had had to learn to read between the tones of peoples' voices to survive, whether that meant placating his father, caring for his brothers, or keeping on the good side of the other men at the shelter and on the street. Sam's voice carried hurt in its undertones, hurt and something softer, something that Castiel didn't even let himself think might be regret. Though that was what it sounded like.

“And if I'd come up to you and said your name, you would have run, because there's no way I should know your name. If I'd just come out and told you I was an angel, you'd have run, and I wouldn't have been able to prove it in public anyway. You respond to authority, Castiel. I didn't want to scare you, and I'm sorry I did. But it worked, and now you're here, where I can protect you.”

Sam heaved a sigh and stood, running his hands over his face and turning away from Castiel.

“From what?” Castiel asked.

“Everything,” Sam answered. “Everything and everyone.”

He sat heavily on the bed. He looked so bone-weary that Castiel felt a pang of sympathy, little as he wanted to feel it.

But he did, so he offered another olive branch and said, “So Brady was a demon.”

Sam looked over at him and nodded. “Yeah. Probably had been for a while.”

“So I have demons after me. What are we going to do? You're an angel—are you going to, what, take me to Heaven to protect me?”

Sam's face fell. He shook his head. “I, ah. No. Not Heaven. We won't be going to Heaven.”

The hush that fell over the room felt thick, and Castiel swallowed hard against it. He stood, and saw how Sam watched him cross the room to the bed. He didn't sit—he didn't want to be that close—but he stood by the foot of the bed.

Sam shifted just enough to be able to meet Castiel's gaze, and was otherwise totally still.

“It's complicated, and I'll explain everything. Do you want to hear it now, though, or do you want to yell at me some more?”

Castiel was good at reading body language. He trusted his instincts—after four years on the street, it had become a survival skill. He wasn't sure if angels moved like humans moved, but there was something in the slump of Sam's shoulders, the open exhaustion in his expression, the droop of his head, that made Castiel sit down on the floor again next to him. The angel—

( _The angel?_ Did he truly believe this?)

—raised his eyebrows.

“Why not Heaven?” Castiel asked.

Sam took his time answering, studying Castiel for a long moment. Castiel was still for it, looking back at the angel with what he hoped looked like courage.

Finally, Sam said, “I. Um. I'm—I'm not Heaven's favorite right now. I'm not welcome there right now. I've made some enemies.”

Castiel pressed his back against the bed, ready to slide away as he asked, “Are you—you're not a _fallen_ angel, are you?”

Sam shook his head. “I'm not fallen, no. I'm just—not invited to the family reunions.” He swallowed, ran his hands through his hair, and smiled ruefully. “I know you have questions. I'm gonna answer them. But I'd prefer not to talk about this, just now.”

There was a genuine sadness in Sam's voice that was reflected in his face. He looked down and away, his hands white-knuckled from being wrung. He looked smaller, suddenly, less intimidating. More human.

So Castiel talked to him like a human.

“I've gotten kicked out of a lot of places,” he said quietly. He felt Sam's eyes on him. “I ran away from home when I was sixteen—maybe you know that.”

“I don't know everything about you, Castiel,” Sam said. “But I did know that.”

Castiel was quiet for a moment.

He couldn't help but wonder what _not everything_ included. Did Sam know why he'd left? Did he know, had he seen the nights that Castiel's father had come home, only to immediately find something wrong with whatever it was Castiel was doing? Had he heard about or witnessed the years of watching his brothers—his brothers who so much more favored their father in appearance—be praised and cherished, while Castiel was incapable of doing anything right?

Had he seen Gabriel help him zip the one bag he'd taken when he'd run, watched Samandriel hug him and tell him that he understood?

Sam had seen a lot of humiliating things about Castiel in the last twenty-four hours, but it made Castiel nauseated to think that he knew _that_ , too.

Castiel coughed. “Um. After that I lived pretty much on my own, and since I was sixteen, it's been on the street. And, you know, places don't look very kindly on you when you haven't bathed in a week and a half, especially once your voice is finished changing.

“I actually had some money on me one morning, and I tried to go into this diner. It was January, and I was really cold, and really hungry. And I _did_ have money. So I got a booth and I sat down, and I was going to order pancakes.”

He paused, remembering how it felt to know that he was about to actually eat a good, hot meal, to be warm for an hour or so, to buy some _coffee_. Remembering the pride that he'd felt, knowing that he was going to be able to pay for the whole thing.

But.

“But then this guy—the manager, I think—told me I couldn't eat there. Told me I had to leave. And I know I could have argued, I could have said I had the money and I had the same rights as anybody else, but I—I was so humiliated. I just left. And I didn't try that again, not at any of the diners nearby. I, um. I never did get the pancakes. But the worst part was being told I didn't belong there, didn't—like I was different from everyone else. Like I didn't belong with _real_ people.”

He looked up, suddenly embarrassed, but Sam was watching him intently. He wasn't smiling anymore.

Castiel took a tremulous breath. “I know it's not the same. I don't know why I said any of that.”

“I ran away, too,” Sam said quietly.

Castiel did look up, then.

“I left Heaven four years ago. I had a feeling that there was something happening there, that there was something wrong, but no one would listen to me. There are plans in motion in Heaven right now that I can't agree with, and we're not built to disagree with plans, Cas. That's important to understand. But I left, and now I can't go back. The punishments for rebellion are...severe.”

He took a deep breath. “They treat me like there's something wrong with me, too. Like I don't belong, either.”

“I'm sorry,” Castiel said.

Sam smiled gently. “Thank you for telling me your story.”

The rest of the day was spent quietly. Sam didn't tell him anything else about why he'd been taken; Castiel didn't ask any more questions. Not yet. He was warm, he was fed, and he was moderately sure that Sam wasn't going to try to murder him in the immediate future, so he figured he'd take advantage of what he was being offered while he had it.

Sam went out to get dinner. He didn't ask Castiel if he'd like to accompany him. Castiel didn't know how he felt about that. On the one hand, no, he didn't really want to go out. On the other, the absence of the question made him wonder if it was safe for him to leave the room, or if Sam would allow him to leave it if he wanted to.

Despite the chicken soup and the warmth, he was still a captive.

He picked through Sam's duffel while he was gone, his fingers brushing over books that probably belonged in a museum. Many of them were in other languages—Latin, Greek, several that he didn't recognize at all—but a few were in Old and Middle English. One or two were in modern English. He pulled one of the latter out of the duffel.

It was a partial translation and academic study of the Codex Gigas, the Devil's Bible. The book seemed in particular to be a study of the rituals and spells described in the book, including exorcisms. He opened it, flipping through the pages.

Sharp, sprawling handwriting was crammed in the margins of the text, making notes sometimes in English, sometimes in Latin, sometimes in a third language whose alphabet Castiel had never seen before. By and large it seemed like Sam was dismissive of the exorcisms in the Codex, or at least their interpretation in this book. He contested several translations from the Latin and made a few notes referencing the _Rituale Romanum_ , which Castiel knew to be the official ritual work of the Catholic Church. It included an exorcism, among other rites. Sam apparently preferred it, although whether that was because it worked better or for aesthetic reasons wasn't clear.

Curious, he put aside the English text and opened one in what appeared to perhaps be Sanskrit. Sure enough, inside the text were notes in what was somehow a similar handwriting, although in a different alphabet.

When he opened one of the Greek books, the notes were in Greek. Same for Latin, same for what was maybe Russian. The only thing all of the notes had in common was the occasional marking in that mysterious third language that he didn't recognize.

Sam was evidently fluent in at least seven languages. Castiel guessed that if he kept going through the duffel, he'd find notes in more. Somehow that impressed upon him, almost more than the wings, the reality that Sam was something else—something apart. He knew there were humans who read that many languages, but he felt sure that if he handed Sam a book to read, it wouldn't matter what language it was in. Any language that had ever been spoken would probably unfold itself in front of him.

He put the books away before Sam returned.

Dinner was pancakes. Their significance was not lost on Castiel.

He ate greedily, finishing his food so quickly that Sam looked impressed and offered him the second styrofoam package full of food. When Castiel refused it, saying that he didn't need any more, Sam gently informed him that angels didn't actually _need_ to eat, but humans did.

Castiel ate the rest of the pancakes.

If Sam noticed anything out of place in the duffel, he didn't say anything. Castiel was somewhat relieved. He didn't think Sam would get very angry to know he'd been reading, but what he'd really been doing was _snooping._ He was afraid that somehow Sam would know that and be angry about it. Castiel would have been, if it had been his things.

But all that happened after dinner was Sam clearing the bed of the books he'd spread on top of the covers and the laptop that he'd been using. He put the laptop on the table and stood by the window, stretching his back, rolling his shoulders.

All Castiel could think of were those massive wings. He wondered if they needed to be stretched, like physical things—if they existed solidly on some plane for Sam.

He must have been staring as he pondered, because when he came back to reality Sam had turned and was grinning at him. He felt his face flush and looked down.

“You can watch TV, or hit the hay, or whatever,” Sam said. “I'm going to stay up and do some more reading. I know you're probably still exhausted.”

He was. Castiel was absolutely exhausted, though he hadn't done anything all day. He shrugged, and Sam laughed softly.

“You are. It's totally normal. Yesterday was really stressful and your body is catching up after that fight-or-flight. I put you to sleep yesterday, and it wasn't natural sleep. You should turn in early.”

Yes. That was right. Something about serotonin, something about cortisol, and his eyes were barely staying open. His brain was not doing much better, so he sat on the bed and kicked his shoes off.

“What about you?” he asked sleepily. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

Sam laughed again. “I'm not, Castiel. I don't have to. Don't worry—the bed's all yours.”

Castiel took it at face value and curled up in the bed. He was asleep within minutes.

When he woke up at two in the morning, he realized that he was in a different bed.

“Sam?” he murmured.

“Go back to sleep,” the angel said tersely.

“Are we in another room?” he asked.

Sam hesitated, but nodded. “Yes. We had to—we had to go. Just go back to sleep.”

As Castiel shifted beneath the covers, through the sleepy fog in his head, he thought vaguely that Sam was not just a runaway.

Sam was still on the run, and now he was on the run with him.


	4. The Wild Ones: Chapter Three

  


It was the books that got Castiel in trouble.

It was the end of his third day with Sam. The second day they had spent in all but absolute silence. Whatever had caused Sam to flee the first motel room had spooked him badly. He had spent the entire day painting the walls of the room they'd landed in with, as he said, sigils. Castiel had watched carefully and offered to help, but was summarily denied.

He sat on the bed instead, staring at the forms taking shape beneath Sam's paint-stained fingers, glad that these didn't seem to require blood. Sam instead used white paint or white chalk to draw the careful, looping circles and jagged lines that comprised the designs. There was a certain unearthly beauty to them, although they unnerved him quite a bit.

He took three showers that day, luxuriating in the hot water, to kill the time.

Sam made sure that he ate, that he had enough water, but otherwise barely interacted with him all day. Castiel had gone to bed that night uneasy, and had unpleasant dreams about his father.

The next day was better. Sam seemed to be settling down after his scare. He was in a better mood all day. He chatted with Castiel about the things he was reading, about the things Castiel was watching on TV, but again, they didn't talk about anything _important_. Nothing about why Sam was keeping Castiel there.

And it was starting to wear on Castiel. A large part of him—his lizard brain, as Gabriel had always put it—said _he's feeding you, you have a roof over your head, you are warm and probably not going to get beaten up._ That was a better prognosis than he usually had for a day, and it was true: Sam had not shown any signs of wanting to hurt him, despite Brady's death. He was kept warm and fed. But his skin crawled with worry every time he looked at the sigils on the walls, or the strange, occult designs on the books.

He was about to say something—he really was—when Sam snapped to attention at the desk he was working at, and began to shovel books into the duffel.

“We have to go,” he said shortly.

Castiel sprang off the bed and stood uncertainly, staring out the window. Maybe there was something there. Maybe he could see what it was that was making Sam so scared. Maybe he could—

His stomach felt like it stayed behind while the rest of him was pulled away, and he clung to Sam's arm desperately.

They landed hard, in another room. Castiel fell to his knees.

“Sorry,” Sam gasped. “Sorry. I wasn't—I didn't think we'd have to move again so fast.”

His eyes were wild and round. The questions that had been budding on Castiel's lips faded and died.

He did ask to look at the books, several hours later, as the sun was setting. Sam told him that it was fine, but seemed distracted. The sigils were only halfway done, because Sam had been staring at one like it had failed him—and maybe it had. Maybe that's why they had had to leave so quickly.

Castiel cracked open one of the Latin books. Sam's handwriting littered the page, but didn't obscure the words.

Castiel didn't speak Latin by any means, but his mother had loved old Latin prayers. He knew the rosary prayers in Latin, heard Masses said in Latin. He was familiar with the sound and shape of the language. He remembered his mother's lips around the words, the _Ave Maria_ , the _Pater Noster_. So it felt natural to shape his own lips around them.

He whispered, "Angele Dei, qui custos est mei, me tibi commissum pietate superna; hac nocte, illumina, custodi, rege, et—"

Sam jerked the book out of his hands. When he looked up, the angel's face was pale and panicked. “No, shh, no no no. Not here. Not yet. The sigil's aren't—somebody might—”

“Hear him?”

Sam and Castiel both jumped and whirled around at the new voice in tandem.

Castiel would have found it almost funny if his heart wasn’t racing so fast he thought it would burst.

A massive frame was slung shadowed in the doorway, arms crossed, indolent and loose-limbed but somehow packed with menace.

Castiel found himself shrinking behind Sam. _Better the devil you know_ , or something.

“That ship has sailed, Sammy,” the voice from the doorway continued. “Thought I taught you better. Ward the room _first,_ fuss over details later.” The figure snapped his fingers, and the lights came back in a flash. Castiel blinked hard. When he opened his eyes, the walls were covered in white sigils.

He bit his lip, then raised his eyes to see who the newcomer was.

He was tall—not quite as tall as Sam, but broad-shouldered, with heavy muscles defined by his close-fitting T-shirt. He had a rough look about him, like he worked with his hands, and a few days’ scruff on his face. He looked tired. He looked angry.

“Dean.” The word came out of Sam like a plea. That didn’t sit well at all. If Sam had to be begging for something from this person, Castiel was probably in trouble.

“Is the kid okay?” asked Dean. Sam nodded wordlessly, but Dean scoffed and shook his head, unfolding himself from the doorway and walking towards them. “Not just gonna take your word on it. Sorry. Move.”

“Dean, come on, man.” Sam put a hand up to discourage his progress, but Dean just came right up and nudged Sam out of the way, going down to one knee next to Castiel and taking his face in one hand. He tilted it one way and another, examining him closely.

Castiel stopped breathing.

“Dean, he’s scared. You’re scaring him. Come on. _Dean_. Let me explain.”

Dean’s expression was carefully schooled while he studied Castiel. Castiel felt himself unwind the tiniest fraction under that scrutiny. He had a clinical way of staring.

That fell away entirely when he looked back at Sam, releasing Castiel.

Castiel flinched at the glower that transformed Dean’s face.

“I don’t want to hear your explanations. First you take off, no word, then you don’t talk to me—to _me_ , Sammy, for _years_ , and now you—what? Poach my duty? This is _my_ job. _Mine_.”

He turned to Castiel.

“You seem okay, at least.”

Castiel just stared.

Dean chuckled softly. “Huh. A man of few words. I can dig it.” He stood up and rounded on Sam, pushing right up in his face. Sam allowed it, which, again, did not inspire much confidence in Castiel.

“You have royally fucked this up, little brother, and there are higher-ups _baying_ for your head. What are you thinking?”

“What am I thinking? Two things.” There was something underneath Sam’s quiet tone.

Castiel turned his wide-eyed stare to him instead.

“One, that I kind of _like_ this world, and I don’t get _why_ this is necessary.”

Dean paled. “Sammy—”

“And two,” Sam interrupted, “that whether or not the _higher-ups_ want this all to go down, whatever their reasons are, _he_ didn’t do anything. He doesn’t deserve it, Dean."

"That's not your call." Dean’s fingers twitched. He started to reach out to his brother, but pulled his arm back. "Sammy. You know the script. You _know_ I would've saved him."

"After how long?" Sam demanded. "How many years? Believe me, Dean, where I found him, he _was_ in Hell."

They both glared at each other until Castiel broke the silence.

“Stop it. Please.”

Then they both turned to him. Sam was still glaring, but Dean’s expression had softened.

“Hey, kid—”

“I’m not a child,” Castiel interjected, though the trembling in his voice betrayed his fear, “and I deserve answers. I've been waiting for answers. I was kidnapped, my best friend murdered in front of me, and _no one_ has even told me what you want. So please. Just tell me. I’m good at following orders but I _have_ to know what they are.”

Dean turned his steely glare back to Sam. “You killed the kid’s friend?”

“He was a demon, Dean.” Sam’s tone was withering. “Come on. I don’t just go around murdering humans for kicks.”

“You know, Sammy, I don’t know what the fuck it is you _do_ do anymore. Because I haven’t heard jack shit from you in almost _four years_.”

“Yeah, well, if you weren’t so far up Heaven’s collective ass you could’ve found me, because if anybody could have, it would’ve been you, and you know it.”

Castiel spun on his heel and bolted for the door.

Of course Dean was in front of it before he could even reach for the doorknob, but at least it shut them up.

“Point taken.” Dean crossed his arms over his chest, broad and imposing, but with a grin on his face that he couldn’t quite smother. “Sorry, Castiel. My little brother over there’s been pissing me off lately. I’m sure you know about that.”

_Samandriel,_ Castiel thought, and winced. But he supposed that if Sam was telling the truth, there was little that these two creatures couldn’t know about him. So instead of acting shocked he simply said, “I haven’t seen my brother in years, either.”

“He’s fine,” said Dean. Castiel looked up, his brow furrowed, so Dean elaborated. “Samandriel. He’s okay. He’s with your big brother now, left home about a year ago.”

“They _left_?” Castiel asked.

What could possibly have made his brothers leave? Their father had only ever had cruelty for Castiel. He was the one who looked too much like their mother. He was the one who was a disappointment. Not the others.

Then the weight of what Dean had said hit him. “You’ve been watching my family?”

He was not sure whether to be awed or horrified. He settled on both, swallowing hard against a lump of panic.

For some reason Dean looked sort of embarrassed. “Not in, like, a creepy way. Just making sure they’re safe.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” Dean frowned, his brows furrowing and his nose crinkling a little in a way that made him seem much less frightening.

But the question remained: “Why would an angel be interested in my family?” Then, a follow-up, spoken more tremulously: “You _are_ an angel, too, right?”

Dean’s brow smoothed and he smiled, just a little. “Yeah, kid. I’m an angel, too. And to answer your question, I’m interested in _you_.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment.

“Should I be comforted, or frightened?” asked Castiel.

He had expected Dean to grin again—it was kind of why he'd said it. Dean smiled more easily than Sam, it seemed, and it wouldn't hurt to have both of them somewhat on his side. But Dean just frowned, looked unhappy.

“I don’t know, man. That’s a good question right now.”

“But my family is safe,” Castiel pressed.

“Gabriel and Samandriel are safe.”

"Can I see them?"

Dean didn't have to say anything for Castiel to know the answer; it was evident in the way his face fell.

"I don't think that's a good idea right now, kid," Dean said. "I know that's not what you wanted to hear."

It wasn’t—of course it wasn’t. But what he wanted to hear rarely had any impact on what it was he ended up hearing. He wasn’t surprised to find that didn’t change when he was dealing with angels.

_Angels._

Dean was still watching him. He said, “Can I trust you not to bolt just yet? I need to set up this room better so that nobody else finds my brother’s stupid ass, at least until we can figure this out.”

Sam sagged with relief in Castiel’s peripheral vision. Castiel looked out the window. It was cold outside, he could tell, and windy, and in here little had changed in his situation: he'd decided already that Sam wasn't going to hurt him, and it didn't seem like that was Dean's aim, either. So he shrugged.

“I won’t leave.”

Dean grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. It made a resounding smack that had Castiel hissing in pain, staggering and gripping his shoulder. Dean startled and touched the shoulder again, this time with two fingers, just like Sam had when Castiel hit his head. The pain receded so fast it left Castiel light-headed.

“Sorry, kid, shit.”

“Dean’s not used to having a vessel yet,” Sam groused from his place across the room. “Doesn’t know his own strength.”

“Can it, Sammy.” Dean’s narrowed eyes didn’t leave Castiel, watching as he regained his equilibrium.

Sam didn’t reply, but set his jaw. Dean didn’t move, either. Eventually Castiel felt that he had to say something. To break the tense silence if nothing else.

“I’m all right. You don’t have to watch me. I’ll just—just sit.”

“Did you get some food for him?” Dean demanded of his brother as Castiel stumbled over and slumped in the overstuffed chair by the window. His heart was racing, his shoulder still tingling with the aftereffects of Dean’s power. He brushed his fingers against it, and shivered.

“Of course. I know that humans need food, Dean.” Castiel looked over at Sam, who was sitting stiffly, frowning at his brother. “He had soup for dinner. We had to jump here from another motel and his body takes a while to recover from it, so I figured something easy to digest would be—”

“Shit, Sammy, he doesn’t need your Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman routine right now, he needs _food_.” Castiel flicked his surprised gaze up at Dean. Then the angel looked down and rolled his eyes.

“Sorry, man. Hang tight.”

And then he was gone.

Castiel tensed in his chair. He'd been on the receiving end of that vanishing act, but to see Dean be there, solidly and definitely present in one moment and gone the next was—unnerving. Sam was just shaking his head, obviously unperturbed by Dean’s departure. Castiel thought that it was probably more than normal for them—Sam and his brother were angels. If they wanted to disappear into thin air, then sure, they could. He didn’t know what they could do, or if there was anything they couldn’t.

Brady’s smoking eye sockets flashed before him, and he flinched. They might be playing nice right now, but he couldn’t afford to let his guard down around either of them. No telling when one of them might decide that he was a demon, too.

After all, in what kind of regard could two angels hold a thief?

He toed off his shoes and pulled his legs up against his chest, capturing his own body’s warmth against himself. Sitting next to the window, it was cooler. There was something crisp about the quality of the parking lot outside. It wasn’t snowing—it wasn’t that cold, not yet—but the world felt ready for it.

He wondered if Gabriel and Samandriel had shelter from the cold. He felt a preemptive pang of guilt at the thought that they might not.

“Now _this_ is food for hungry boys. Besides, I missed your birthday.”

Castiel’s entire body left the seat when he jumped. When his eyes found Dean, the angel was giving him a bemused look. He was also holding pie, so Castiel felt slightly warmer towards him than he might have otherwise.

“Is that pie? Dean, pie isn’t good for humans.” Castiel didn’t turn to Sam while he lectured his brother, but kept his focus on Dean, hoping the angel wouldn’t be swayed by his brother’s complaints. Dean just winked at him.

“Maybe not for the arteries, Sammy, but for the heart. Right, Cas?”

Castiel bit his lip.

He had not given his name out to anyone on the street—not his full name, not the name his mother gave him. Everyone on the street called him _Cas._ His brothers had, too, but sometimes that felt like ancient history.

Some days, it felt like _Cas_ was the thief, the homeless runaway who was turned away from restaurants and treated with disdain, so that _Castiel_ could remain sixteen and loved and a brother and a son. Some days it felt like _Cas_ was irrevocably dirtied.

But somehow, Dean made it sound okay.

Maybe it was because when Dean looked at him, Castiel could tell that he knew everything—every dumpster dive that had ever been his prerequisite for dinner, every time he’d cried himself to sleep at night, every humiliating thing he’d ever done. He already knew, but he still winked and offered him pie and remembered that it had been his birthday.

So all he said was, “Technically it’s bad for your heart, too.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. It sent a quick shiver of fear down Castiel’s spine, but there was also a grin tugging at the corner of Dean’s lip, so he guessed it was okay. “Metaphorical heart, Cas. Anyway. If the buildup gets too bad, then _boom_.” He pressed his fingers together like he and Sam had when they’d healed Castiel before, then held them with his thumb raised in the universal pantomime for _gun_ and ‘fired’ at Castiel’s heart. “I can mojo that away. So eat up!”

Sam muttered something about a blatant abuse of celestial powers while Dean served up the pie, but Castiel could hear the relief in his voice—relief and something like fondness. Were they really brothers? Did angels have brothers? If they did, was their relationship anything like his and Gabriel’s or his and Samandriel’s—did they feel affection the way humans did?

From the way that Dean shoved the pie at Sam and ordered him to eat it, then took a small fistful and smeared it against his brother’s face when Sam refused, Castiel figured that they probably had a _lot_ in common with him and his brothers.

The ensuing tussle didn’t last long. Castiel stayed on the chair to eat his pie and Sam hunkered down on the bed, so Dean dropped down and sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling his monumentally large slice of pastry on his lap.

“So, Cas,” he said between bites, “that head of yours is just firing up the neurons, so I figure you’ve got questions.”

“A few.” Castiel watched Dean with caution.

Dean grinned around his pie, which was surprisingly gross for an angel of the Lord. Sam said something to that effect. Dean swallowed before answering and, to Castiel’s shock, flipped his brother off.

“Bite me, Sammy. All right, Cas, hit me.”

“Why me?” The question was automatic. It had been on the tip of his tongue earlier, when they’d talked about his brothers, but Gabriel and Samandriel—especially Samandriel—came first. Always. With the reassurance that they would be protected, or at least that Dean said they would be, which was the best that Castiel was likely to get, he could ask about himself.

But apparently it was a difficult question, because Dean took a long time thinking. He stared down at his pie, then glanced at Sam. The two angels engaged in a rather long and complicated wordless conversation that made Castiel very homesick for his brothers.

“It’s complicated.” Dean moved the remainder of his pie around his plate as he spoke. “Not that I’m not gonna tell you, just that—it’s a long story. Okay? And you’re probably not going to like all of it. No, you’re definitely not going to like all of it. You probably won’t even like most of it.”

“The preamble isn’t making me feel any better,” Castiel said, surprised at the dryness of his own voice. Dean was, too, and his eyebrows lifted dramatically.

“Okay, right to the meat. Got it. Basically—you’re a Righteous Man, a human with a pure and Godly soul, and I’ve been assigned to your case, because _you’ve_ got a starring role in an upcoming summer blockbuster clash between Heaven and Hell.”

The silence that fell upon that statement was thick and precarious.

Castiel laughed, a weak, choked sound, but he was the only one who did.

He looked between the two angels a few times, observing Dean’s facade of nonchalance covering the anxiety hinted by the creases between his brows and the now too-firm hold he had on his pie plate, watching Sam open and close his mouth twice as he struggled to find an appropriate response to his brother’s words.

Finally he managed to say: “What?”

“You, Cas,” Dean replied. “That’s what the word is. And I do mean _the Word_.”

Castiel nodded, understanding now. He pressed his thumb against his plate and licked off the flaky, sugary crust stuck to it, sighing as the realization settled over him like a blanket that he was about to get kicked out of the motel room. The warmth and the food, under the ever-present threat of homicidal violence though they might have been, were nice.

“I think you found the wrong person.” He set the empty plate on the lamp table next to him. “I’m sorry. If you’re looking for a righteous man, I’m not him.”

He grabbed his shoes from the floor and pulled them on, ducking his head and hoping that his too-long hair would hide the tears that were stinging his eyes. It was bad enough that the angels—and he had to admit that he believed them; how could he not, after what he’d seen? Bad enough that the angels had to catch him doing what he was doing. Bad enough that he _knew_ , without a doubt, that angels existed and that they knew what he was—that he had tried to steal from one of them. But for them to have mistaken him for a righteous man? To have to correct them on that?

He felt so small in front of them, now. Best to just slink back to the hole Sam dug him out from and hide until he didn’t want to die quite so much.

But when he went to stand, Dean was looming over him, too much in his space for him to get off the chair.

And he thought, _okay_.

He lifted his eyes to Dean’s because he would take his smiting like a man, but the angel was shaking his head.

“Sammy picked the right guy.” God, he sounded _so sure._ “We don’t make mistakes, kid, not about stuff like this.”

But sure as he might be, it didn’t change who—what Castiel was. “I am not a righteous man.”

“I think an angel of the Lord would be a better authority on that, don’t you?”

Dean cocked an eyebrow at him. It was so infuriatingly casual, so _easy_ , so _everyday_ that Castiel sprang up from the chair with enough force to dislodge a bigger man, he knew, he’d had to do it before—

But he just fell back into his chair when the very stoppable force that was him met the very immovable Dean. He settled for glaring after that.

“I’m a thief,” Castiel said, “not a _saint_. Do you know how your brother found me? I tried to steal his wallet. I am no righteous man, certainly not some kind of—of special person who’s worth an _angel_ being assigned to him, who’s going to be involved in a—”

He broke off.

Because it occurred to him, horribly, that while he could never see himself being a force of Heaven, perhaps Hell had use for him.

“Hey.” Dean’s voice broke into his spiraling thoughts and he snapped back to the present, only to find that Dean had crouched down by him, putting himself lower, careful not to get too close—as if Castiel was an easily spooked animal.

“Knock it off. I’m not the Boss Man, but we’ve been given our instructions, all right? And it’s not like they gave us a vague description. You, Castiel Novak, are the Righteous Man I’ve been sent to. And yeah, you’re Heaven’s.”

Castiel startled, shaking Dean's hand off of his leg. “Did you read my thoughts?”

Dean grinned, amused. “Like I'd have to. You're an open book, kid.”

“Castiel.” Sam unfolded himself from off the bed and came to stand behind Dean. “I know this is a lot. And Dean could’ve found a better way to break it to you. Probably could’ve found ten better ways to break it to you.”

“Least I didn’t take the _let me kill your friend and kidnap you_ route.” Dean shot a poisonous glare at his brother. “This is why you have a hard time making friends, Sammy.”

“He was a _demon_ , Dean.” Sam clenched his hands, then collected himself and turned to Castiel. He spread his fingers again—it seemed to be his go-to _look how harmless I am_ move. It didn’t work any better this time than it had in the motel room where Brady died. “What Dean _didn’t_ tell you is why you’re meeting us now.”

“Sammy,” Dean warned, but Sam plowed through.

“Heaven’s plan for you—it’s not so cut-and-dry like Dean says it. Not that he’s lying to you—what he said was true. You’ve got a big role to play in a battle between Heaven and Hell. But it’s a very specific battle.”

Sam took a deep breath and Castiel took one in tandem with him, his eyes fixed on Sam’s face as he seemed to gather his courage to say what he had to say.

“They want you to kick-start the Apocalypse, Castiel.”


	5. The Wild Ones: Chapter Four

  


Castiel knew he wouldn’t get far.

The fact that they had let him out of the motel at all surprised him, in a distant sort of way. He’d jumped out of the chair and around Dean and yanked the door open so fast it slammed against the wall, and took off, feet pounding against the concrete.

The Apocalypse. This was insanity. He had to deal with the fact that there were angels—okay. He’d seen Sam’s wings and he’d seen Dean disappear (fly away?) and he'd flown himself with Sam and he’d been healed not once but twice by some scruffy guy putting two fingers together and touching him. He might even consider buying the idea that Brady had been possessed, because he had been unreasonably strong when he’d pulled Castiel out from under the table, and because the things he’d been saying were pretty strange. So to try to keep himself from going insane, okay. Brady was a demon, Sam and Dean were angels.

But there was no way that Castiel Novak, runaway, twenty-year-old dropout and nobody, was the lynchpin designed to start the end times.

The _Righteous Man_.

He couldn’t tell if it hurt more when he thought that Sam was telling the truth, or when he thought that they were making fun of him.

His thin sneakers did little to cushion his footfalls and his arches were screaming at him to sit, to stop punishing himself. He wasn’t wearing nearly enough for the thirty-three degree weather, but he kept going and going until—

Until he ran straight into someone, sending both of them crashing to the ground.

The fact that his victim also fell told him instantly that he hadn't managed to run into Sam or Dean, which made a sizable dent in his panic, but his adrenaline was pumping so hard and his heart was racing so fast that he trembled as he stood and looked cautiously at the other person.

She was probably a little older than him, but not much, and considerably smaller. Her pale hair splayed out around her on the road, but she groaned and started to pick herself up so he knew he hadn't actually killed her. She dusted off her jeans and straightened her crop jacket, too thin for the weather, and rolled her shoulders. She stared at him.

“Oh, shit,” she said, “you're bleeding.”

Castiel frowned—that was not the reaction he'd been expecting—but she reached out and drew her fingers across his cheek, where he'd leaned into the fall and scraped against the asphalt. Her pale fingertips came away red.

“Are you okay?” she asked, waving at him a little. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” Castiel replied. He wondered if the dazed feeling he was experiencing might actually be a concussion, or if it was just the result of having a normal human conversation after the completely insane several days he'd just had.

The woman laughed. “Okay, good. Man, you scared me.”

Castiel shook himself out of the stupor. “Jesus, I'm—sorry, I'm sorry, are _you_ okay? I didn't even see you, I—”

She laughed again, and put her hand on his arm. He almost flinched away from the contact but managed to restrain himself in time. She was human. It was okay for her to touch him. It was even kind of nice, to be touched instead of manhandled.

“I'm fine,” she said. “But you look pretty freaked. Want to sit for a sec?”

Before he could answer she took him by the arm and pulled him to the sidewalk, where she sat down and pulled him alongside her. He sat ungracefully, catching himself with an already-bleeding hand.

“I should really go,” he said haltingly, but she was already shaking her head.

“Not until I know you're not gonna get hit by the first car that drives by.” She ducked to peer at his eyes. “Seriously, you look like you've seen a ghost.”

Castiel had to laugh at that.

She grinned, too, and stuck out her hand.

“I'm Ruby,” she said.

“Castiel.” He couldn't quite figure out why he'd told her his real name, but he grasped her hand nonetheless. “And it's just been a hard couple of days.”

She hummed sympathetically, and bumped his shoulder with hers. He swallowed hard against tears at the simple, comforting gesture.

“Wanna talk about it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not in particular. Thanks, though.”

“You sure?” she asked. “Maybe you'll feel better.”

He smiled, shaking his head again. “No, it's—personal. And weird.”

He stood, shivering, and flashed her one more smile.

“Thanks for the...for checking on me. And I'm sorry I ran into you. I, um. I've got to go. Have a good night.”

He started across the street, hugging his jacket to him.

“It's horrible, what they did to Brady.”

Her voice stopped him cold.

She walked up to him, her shoes clipping quietly on the asphalt. She stopped a few feet away, shoved her hands in her pockets. “I mean, not the best first impression, right?”

He turned around. “Who are you?”

She smiled, a sad thing, but he couldn't help but think that it was affected. “I'm a friend, Castiel. I'm here to help you.”

“I don't have friends,” Castiel said. “What do you want?”

“Same thing you want. To get you away from those psycho angels.”

“And why should I trust you?”

“You trusted Brady, right?”

Castiel paused, steadied his breathing. Nodded, because, yes, he had trusted Brady.

_That's not your friend_.

He had trusted Brady.

Ruby closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were flat beetle-black.

“I'm like Brady,” she said.

Castiel cried out and stumbled back. Ruby blinked again, her eyes returning to normal—or not normal? Was that awful jet black normal? This was only the mask, wasn't it?

She was a demon.

Brady _had_ been a demon. Sam had told the truth.

The reality of it hit him like a punch to the gut. He found his heart racing, his breathing pick up. Ruby was saying something, but he hadn't been paying even the slightest attention to it because she was _right there_ , her eyes flipped black. He couldn't deny it, not this time.

“I can protect you from them, if you come with me,” she said, holding out her hand. Castiel ducked away from it.

“I don't want your help,” he said. “I don't _need_ it.”

Her smile slipped somewhat. “I find _that_ hard to believe.”

Castiel began to back up, jabbing his finger at her. “You stay away from me. You _stay away_. I don't want them, and I don't want you. Stay away!”

“They're gonna go after your family, Castiel,” Ruby said. “Your brothers. You need allies, and I'm a good one to have.”

His breath caught in his throat, but he turned and ran, even faster than he'd run from the motel.

His lungs eventually gave out on him and he crashed down onto a rusty roundabout in the middle of a decrepit little playground.

His legs trembled. He pulled one up to his chest, pushing himself off with the other. The roundabout squealed in protest as it started a half-hearted circuit.

His chin trembled and he covered his mouth with both hands.

This wasn’t fair. He was just doing what he had to do, doing what he could to survive. He didn’t deserve to be—to be—

To be _fucked around with_.

The profanity sounded weird in his head. He’d been raised better than that, his mother would have said, but he was raised better than pickpocketing, too, so…

So _fuck it_.

He laughed out loud, then slapped his hands back over his mouth and giggled.

He’d just run away from two angels and a demon. Nowhere was safe. Everyone had eyes on him everywhere. How much more trouble could he get into?

“Heya, Cas.”

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry when Dean's voice reached him.

He settled on doing neither.

The angel's heavy boots crunched the dead leaves on the ground. Castiel looked up at him.

“Hi,” he said dejectedly.

Dean chuckled and stopped the roundabout with his foot. “You went a lot farther than we'd expected. Did you really think you were getting away? Not trying to sound all villainous, but I mean...you had to know we could find you.”

“I wasn't thinking much at all,” Castiel said. “Are you going to bring me back?”

There was a silence, then the creak of protesting, rusting metal as Dean lowered himself onto the roundabout, sitting on the section next to Cas.

“Yeah,” he said. “But in a minute.”

Castiel nodded, pulling his legs up onto the equipment and crossing them. Dean rocked the roundabout slightly, experimentally, like he wasn't sure if that was what he was supposed to do.

“Are you going to bring me to Heaven?” Castiel asked.

Dean pushed off, then, sending them spinning lazily, the protestation of the wheel loud in the dead silence of the playground. Castiel looked up at his face. He looked contemplative.  
  
“I promised Sammy I wouldn't,” he said, finally. “He fought me pretty hard. He wanted to be the one to come out and find you. But he needs to stay behind the wards. He's pissed off a lot of people, taking you.”

“It wasn't my plan for the day, either,” Castiel muttered.

Dean laughed, which startled Castiel, and forced a little smile out of him.

“I know. Look, my brother—he means well. He's just confused. What I think we ought to do is head back to the motel, talk this out, figure it out like grown ups. What do you say?”

Castiel frowned, sticking his foot out and dragging his heel against the dirt, slowing them to a stop. Dean looked surprised.

“I'd say that I guess that a vote about what happens to me doesn't sound great, when you can reach a majority without me, and everyone involved in that majority can force me to do whatever they want anyway.”

Dean turned to him and grabbed his arm. Castiel's heart lurched, but there was no further movement, just the grip.

“Nobody can force you to do this thing, Cas,” Dean said. “You have to _consent_ to it. You have to say yes, or it doesn't happen.”

“And what does that mean?” Castiel asked. “How am I supposed to say _no_ to you? You can do whatever you want to me—Sam did—but I'm supposed to believe that you'd just say _oh, okay_ and leave me alone if I say I don't want to help you start the Apocalypse?”

Dean looked, hard as it was to believe, hurt. He released Castiel's arm, then leaned back against the bars of the roundabout. He studied Castiel, shaking his head.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” he said. “That's not how this is gonna happen. I think I can convince you that I'm right.”

“And if you can't?” Castiel asked.

Dean smiled sadly. “Still not gonna hurt you.”

He made a sweeping gesture with his arm.

“Shall we?” asked Dean.

Castiel looked at him.

“Gonna wait for you to say you're ready.”

“I get it, you're asking permission, waiting for consent. It's all very heavy-handed,” Castiel complained. Dean grinned.

Castiel sighed.

“Fine. Okay, I'm ready.”

Two fingers pressed lightly against Castiel's forehead , and they disappeared.

When he’d finished retching, Castiel crawled up onto his hands and knees and sat back on his heels, glaring up at the two angels who were hovering over him.

Dean looked away first. He turned away and stood, shrugging out of his jacket and leaving it draped on the bed. Sam put a hand on his arm but Dean shook it off, muttering something about going to patch up the sigils before he walked away.

Sam watched him for a while, then turned to Castiel. “You okay?”

Castiel nodded, standing stiffly and walking to the bed, sitting heavily.

“I’m sorry about all of this.” Sam sat down next to him, propped his elbows on his legs and let his head hang. “I thought you might need some space. I don’t...think I was wrong, but you shouldn’t have been alone for that long.” 

“Are my brothers in danger?” Castiel asked. Ruby's words had been playing in his head since he heard them. Now that he was back, his pitiful attempt at escape predictably foiled, he had to ask.

Sam didn’t say anything for a long while, and Castiel shifted on the bed. “I deserve an answer.”

“You do,” Sam agreed. “And yes. Your brothers are a part of this. At least Gabriel is. The younger one, I’m not sure about.”

“Samandriel.” Castiel covered his face with his hands. He would _not_ cry. Not again. “His name is Samandriel.”

“I haven’t been in touch with Heaven in a while. You heard Dean yelling about that earlier.”

Sam sounded bitter. His eyes were fixed on his brother across the room, and Castiel knew that look. He knew what it was to miss your brother. “If there’s a plan for Samandriel, it was only revealed to the Host after I...left.”

“Sam.” The angel turned back to him, looking startled, which meant that maybe Castiel sounded as firm as he’d hoped to. He swallowed hard. “I’ll—I’ll do what you want. Whatever it is you want from me, I’ll do it, but you have to protect my brothers. I won’t—I won’t obey if my brothers are in danger.”

“That’s exactly what I want, Castiel.” Sam leaned forward, eager, but stilled when Castiel pulled back. “I want your brothers safe from Heaven. You, too. It isn’t fair, what they’re doing to you. I want to help you, Castiel. If you’ll let me.”

“I want my brothers safe,” Castiel said, knowing that it wasn’t quite assent. It wasn’t quite disagreement, either. He wondered how much a human had to be actually on board with an angel’s idea before compliance was taken as a given.

Sam nodded and opened his mouth to speak again just as the sound of Dean's hollow laughter broke the brief silence.

Sam and Castiel both turned to him. He was shaking his head, his finger against the wall, paused in the midst of fixing a sigil.

“That's the biggest load of shit I've ever heard,” he said, his voice threatening in its measured quiet. He wiped the paint off of his finger with a rag, then threw the rag onto the ground with surprising violence.

Castiel shivered.

He didn’t think Dean would hurt him—not really. Of the two of them, Dean was the one he was less afraid of. Every move Dean had made had been to help him, or, at worst, to bring him back, but never to hurt him. But like this, tense and radiating anger...Castiel was glad he was behind Sam, but he wasn’t sure Sam could take his brother if it came to a fight. And it looked like it might well come to a fight.

“Dean,” Sam said, hesitant.

Castiel watched as Dean flexed his hands, took two deep breaths, and turned to face them. Castiel tensed preemptively, but when he saw Dean’s face, he frowned.

Dean looked _sad_ more than anything, more than angry, though he still definitely looked angry. He shook his head.

“Dammit, Sammy, what are you doing?”

“Fixing this.” Sam took a step toward his brother.

Dean shook his head again and Sam stopped.

“Don’t make him promises you can’t keep, man. He’s been let down enough.” Dean scrubbed his face harshly, and stared at his brother. “You know how this is gonna end.”

“That’s up to you, Dean.” Sam’s movements were small, cautious. His fingers kept making these little twitches like he wanted to touch Dean but knew he wouldn’t be allowed to. “You’re the only one who knows what I’ve done. If you don’t say anything—”

“Sam, if you do this, you’re asking me to _rebel_.” Dean’s face was pale and drawn with anger, but he looked sick, too, nauseous. Castiel wondered if angels could feel nauseous. “You get that, right? That you’re asking me to risk falling?”

“We’re talking about the Apocalypse.”

“We’re talking about the _Will of God_!” Dean shouted. “You want me to deny my duty and our _family_ because you think you know better?”

Sam hesitated, then tilted his head so that it was clear he was talking to Castiel. He turned more fully towards Dean, using all of his broad body as a shield between his brother and Castiel. “Go under the table. If anything happens, press your hand against the sigil underneath.”

Castiel felt like his breath was caught in his throat as he stared between Sam and Dean, but finally he made up his mind and decided he liked his odds better with whatever kind of escape hatch Sam had cooked up. If they were going to get into some kind of heavenly sibling brawl, he didn’t want to be standing near them.

He ducked beneath the table and Dean made an aborted lunge towards him, then stopped himself, glaring at Sam instead. “What is this?”

“Banishing sigil.” Sam set his jaw as though bracing himself for a fight, and Dean swore loudly. “I figured somebody would find us eventually. Didn’t know it would be so soon. I didn’t think it would be _you_ , Dean.”

“Well, it was, Sammy, and now what?” Dean stepped right up to Sam’s face. Castiel raised his hand off of the ground, peering up at the sigil—again in blood, probably Sam’s, similar but not identical to the one he’d hidden under at the motel. He didn't know when Sam had drawn this one—possibly while Castiel had been reading.

It was comforting to know that he could make this go away, if he had to—if it got to be too much. But they were _talking_ , now, angry as they sounded, and if he stayed to hear it maybe he could learn something valuable.

“He hits the eject button, you’re gone, too,” Dean reminded Sam. “And we both know where he is, and I’m pretty sure I’m faster than you.”

“And every time I stall you, you have to think a little harder about what it is you’re planning to do.”

Castiel couldn’t see Dean’s face much from where he was, but he could see shoulders grow tense as Sam spoke.

“Every minute that goes by you have to really _think_ about what you’re going to do to him by following your orders.”

“This is not personal, Sammy,” Dean began, only to be cut off by Sam’s quiet laugh.

“It wasn’t.” Sam smiled, but it was a sad, rueful thing. “Now it is. That’s the point.”

“I _will_ save him.” Dean’s voice took a minute to come after Sam finished talking, but when it did, it was quiet and firm and had only the slightest hint of pleading in it. “Believe me.”

“I do,” Sam said. “Dean, I do. But we can do more this way.”

Castiel’s breath caught in his throat as he saw Dean’s heavy-booted foot move just slightly towards him—little enough that he might’ve just been leaning away from Sam, or shifting his weight, but Castiel felt his stomach drop because he didn’t think so. Dean kept his eyes locked on Sam’s face, or at least he kept facing toward his brother, but Castiel could feel all the weight of the angel’s focus on him, beneath the table.

“What are you gonna do, Sammy?” Dean’s heel slid mostly sideways, but enough back, towards the table, that Castiel tensed. “Move him and his brothers into a safe room for the rest of their lives? Ward ‘em up? Burn sigils into their ribs so our brothers can’t find them? You gonna stay with them, on the run, forever? You thought about any of this, Sammy?”

Sam’s brows were furrowed in frustration. He looked to the side, so he didn’t notice Dean moving until he was already at the table, crouched down with a hand around Castiel’s wrist.

“It’s nothing personal,” he repeated.

His voice sounded genuinely sorry, but Castiel couldn’t give less of a damn.

He pushed in towards Dean with his captured wrist, and it was enough to startle the angel, who released him. “No,” Castiel said, “it’s not,” and he slammed his palm against the sigil.

Bright white, and then an empty motel room.

This time, when Castiel ran, he had Dean’s jacket around his shoulders and a destination in mind.

He had to get to Bobby.


	6. The Wild Ones: Chapter Five

  


Dean’s jacket made the night bearable, but it was still _bitterly_ cold. He huddled on the ground, the jacket pulled around his skinny legs, in the long stretches between the glare of headlights on the highway.

They hadn’t come looking for him, or they hadn’t found him, at least. Not yet. He had no doubt that they would eventually—they had at the playground, after all—but he hoped that the banishment would buy him some time. Disorient them or something, maybe send them far enough away that it would take them a while to get back. Maybe they'd have a harder time finding him from a distance.

Maybe.

A flash of headlights shone in the distance and he scrambled up, sticking his thumb out and trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

The truck passed without even slowing, and he sat back down.

The cars were few and far between, and that fact made each one that passed him by a blow. Particularly since there wasn’t much for him to focus on between cars, which meant that he was becoming hyper-sensitive to any sensory stimulus that he could focus in on. And every noise sounded like _them_.

Every time the breeze blew through the dry grass in the field behind him, it sounded like wings rustling. Every time an airplane passed overhead, it was the growl of Sam’s car. Every time his foot slipped and knocked a rock, he was sure he heard an echo of Dean’s boot.

As the night pressed on and he got colder and colder, he started to wonder if it would be so terrible if one of them were to show up. They would keep him warm, at least. Both of them had fussed over him like mother hens, even if it had been for different reasons. Dean needed his Apocalyptic catalyst hale and hearty, and Sam—Castiel still couldn’t tell what Sam wanted from him. To keep him safe? Whatever that meant in context. He didn’t want any of any of it.

Even if it meant warm motel rooms, chicken noodle soup, and pie, he didn’t want it.

He would keep the jacket as recompense, though. It wasn't like Dean needed it.

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and stifled a yawn. He didn’t have a watch on him but he guessed it was probably past midnight by now. He was starting to get the sinking feeling that his chances for hitching a ride had plummeted. He’d wandered pretty far from town, though, onto the highway, hoping to get away from places Sam and Dean might think to look for him. He really didn’t want to sleep out here on the side of the road, which meant he’d have to walk all the way back to town.

His eyeballs throbbed with the weight of his weariness. His legs protested the idea of walking that far, but he pulled himself up and rolled his shoulders back.

A pair of headlights appeared over the small hill just as he stood.

He blinked hard before sticking out his thumb.

The vehicle, which turned out to be a small pickup truck, slowed and stopped. Castiel dropped his hand slowly, scrutinizing the truck, pretty sure it wasn’t the kind of vehicle he’d get into under less than desperate circumstances—but on the other hand, these were no less than desperate circumstances. He had demons and rogue angels and not-so-rogue angels after him, and they’d told him the rest of Heaven and Hell were on his trail, too, so he gave the driver—a heavyset man, probably in his late forties or early fifties, looking about as reputable as his truck—a grateful smile and climbed in.

He stuck his hands in front of the heater immediately. “Th-thank you. I w-wasn’t sure anybody was going to p-pick me up.”

“It’s a cold ass fucking night you picked to hitch.” The driver looked at Castiel askance. “And you’re not dressed for it neither. You running?”

Castiel tamped down the urge to fidget. He managed to shrug in what he hoped was nonchalance. “Just needed to get out, you know? F-family.”

The driver’s gaze flicked over to him several times in the next few moments, but in the end he didn’t say anything.

Castiel was grateful. There was no way to explain why he was hitch-hiking on this frigid night, no way to explain his five-sizes-too-big jacket, that wouldn’t raise more questions or the possibility of turning this favor into a barter.

After Castiel’s dodgy non-answer, the driver turned the radio on. Castiel sank back into his seat and let the heater warm him.

It wasn’t until about ten miles in that the driver asked, “Where are you headed?”

Castiel opened his mouth to answer, but then rethought the wisdom of telling the truth. There was no way he was getting a nine-hour lift out of this guy anyway. “Omaha. I’ve got family there.”

“Thought you were leaving to get away from family.”

Castiel shifted in his seat. “Well, you know. There’s family and then there’s _family_.” Translated as, _there are angels who want you to either start the Apocalypse or help them defy Heaven, and then there’s the man who all but raised you after your mother died and your father went crazy._

The driver gave him a look through narrowed eyes, but thankfully dropped it. “I’m only going as far as Davenport. Think you can find a place to stay?”

“Or another ride. I’ll figure something out.” Castiel smiled again, but it flickered out pretty fast because the logistics had occurred to him but he had pushed it aside until now. Davenport was about two hours outside of Pontiac, which meant he’d still have something like seven hours worth of car ride before he got to Bobby’s. Where in Davenport was he going to stay at two in the morning? Would there be anyone on I-80 who’d be willing to stop for him? Perhaps more importantly, would there be anyone on I-80 at two in the morning he’d be willing to get into a car with?

“Lot of crazies out, this time of night.” The driver’s tone was mild, but Castiel looked over at him in alarm anyway. It was a simple enough statement, but from where he was sitting, in the passenger seat of a beat-up old pickup truck next to a total stranger, it sounded a lot like a threat.

“I can take care of myself.” It was a total lie but he hoped not an obvious one, because, honestly, up until today he’d been more or less self-sufficient. He didn’t live _well_ , and he didn’t live _safely_ , but he’d survived for nearly four years on his own. It had been him versus the world and he’d managed to keep going.

He felt like he could hardly be blamed for having a harder time when it was him versus the hosts of Heaven and Hell.

The driver, luckily, didn’t respond to that, but the lingering tension in the air didn’t dissipate. Castiel curled himself up on the seat, his arms wrapped around him, trying to hang on to the heat he’d managed to accumulate. He knew how defensive he looked. Not quite like somebody who could _take care of himself_.

Maybe he’d stop off before Davenport.

Nearly an hour passed in uncomfortable silence. While Castiel was very grateful for the warmth and the escape from Pontiac, he found himself wishing that they were in Davenport already. Not that he had a plan, or the beginnings of a plan. But he wanted to get out of the car.

The driver hadn’t said or done anything threatening, per se. And it was completely possible that Castiel was just being paranoid—he wouldn’t blame himself if that was the case. But something about the man made him uncomfortable. He seemed to be completely focused on Castiel even though his eyes remained on the road. Every time Castiel moved he felt that focus sharpen.

On the other hand, maybe the guy wasn’t used to picking up hitchhikers and felt as odd riding with a stranger as Castiel did.

It was I-80 that revealed it.

The deer came, it seemed, out of nowhere. Castiel gripped the door handle and the seat as the driver slammed on the brakes and swerved to avoid the animal, who froze in the middle of the road. Castiel turned to the driver to see if he was okay, only to become fixated on his eyes.

His black eyes.

He blinked and they were brown once again, but it was too late.

Castiel’s breath was coming unevenly, now. He stole a glance at the speedometer, but sixty miles per hour was far too fast for him to hurl himself out the door. The driver looked at him, his breath coming quick, too, and stilled.

“You okay, kid?” His voice was low, dark. Castiel swallowed.

“I’d like to get out, please.” It was probably futile, but Castiel would feel foolish to not try at all.

The driver shifted in his seat, flexed his hands over the steering wheel, and sighed heavily.

“You’ve got a lot of people talking about you, Castiel Novak. You’re stirring some pretty big ant piles.” He put his arm over the back of the seat. Castiel shrank away from it. “You think the angels will have any more trouble finding you in Omaha than they did in Pontiac?”

“I know you’re not on their side. I don’t know what you want with me but I’m trying to get away from them, okay? I don’t want to do whatever it is they want. I promise, I’m not working with them.”

The driver laughed, his fingers reaching out and grabbing Castiel by the hair. He grunted, panicked, wrapping his hands around the driver’s.

“You misunderstand. What we want you for does not involve you going back to them, or getting away from them.” He jerked Castiel’s head back. “We just need you dead, kiddo.”

Castiel’s hair was suddenly free, and he barely had time to look up before he was slammed against his seat belt. The driver braked hard, tires squealing. He let out an impressive stream of profanity.

Castiel tried to catch his breath, but when he looked out his window, it was all punched out of him again.

Ruby, haloed in the streaming headlights, standing smack in the middle of the road, waved at him.

She walked around to his side, opened the door, and crawled in. He was forced to shift towards the driver while she sat where he’d been by the window, closing the door and locking it.

He tried to think of some demonic variant to _a rock and a hard place_ but kept getting stuck on _brimstone_.

Ruby leaned over and gave the driver a nod. “Ellsworth.”

“Ruby.” The driver—Ellsworth—glared at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Stopping you from getting your stupid ass fried.” She turned to Castiel. “You okay? Did mean old Ellsworth hurt you?”

“I want to go, Ruby.” It angered Castiel how much his voice wavered. “If you hurt me Dean and Sam will find out. I know you don’t want them mad at you.”

“Nobody’s gonna hurt you.” Ruby leaned back again and glared across the seat. “ _Ellsworth_.”

“This is the Novak kid.” Ellsworth whispered it as if Castiel weren't there, or perhaps as though he didn't know his own name. “And he’s supposed to—”

“We’re not gonna put a hand on him.” Ruby’s voice brooked no argument.

“Ruby—”

“We’re not gonna put a hand on him, at least if we want to finish this car ride with all the hands we started with.”

That shut him up.

A smirk pulling up the corner of Ruby’s lips, she leaned back and studied Castiel.

“So. Ditched the babysitters?”

“I’m not interested in playing any of these games.” Castiel had hoped for a firmer tone, but he found himself shaking all over. “Not from them, and not from you, either. I want to get out, Ruby. Please.”

“It’s a long walk to Sioux Falls.”

Castiel stopped breathing.

Ruby cocked a grin at him. Ellsworth was staring at her.

“Eyes on the road, Morgan Freeman.” Ellsworth's stare turned into a glower before he obeyed. “Yeah, we can do our research, Cassie.”

“Don’t call me that.” Castiel shivered, but met her eyes firmly.

She didn’t say anything for a while, but then laughed. “Okay, woah, kitty’s got claws. Fine. _Cas_. We know where you and your brothers holed up after Daddy went nuts. The Wing Brigade aren’t the only ones with their eyes on you, after all. And when the shit hits the fan, where else would a Novak go but Singer Salvage?”

Castiel braced himself against the door with his elbow, trying and failing to control the shaking that was making his teeth chatter despite the warmth.

“Don’t hurt Bobby. Or Gabriel or Samandriel. Tell me what you want with me and I’ll cooperate.”

Ruby’s eyes widened and she pressed her hand against her heart. “You wound me, Cas. We just want to give you a ride. Can’t we just be pals? It _is_ a long walk if you decide to hoof it.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t think you’re doing this without ulterior motive.”

Ruby laughed delightedly. “Ooh, five-dollar words for someone like you.” Castiel flinched. “Aw, Cas, don’t let me hurt your feelings, baby. You know that I tolerate you.”

Castiel fixed his eyes out the frosted dash, into the clear night’s sky. Instead of responding, he asked, “Are Sam and Dean going to find me there?”

“Yeah.” Ruby looked sobered. “You wanna get found, Cas?”

He thought about it.

About chicken noodle soup and warm motel rooms and _I want to help you, if you’ll let me._ He thought about kick-starting the Apocalypse and Brady’s body, still and smoking on the floor. About it being _nothing personal_.

He shook his head.

Ruby relaxed, then ducked down and dug into her messenger bag, pulling out a plain black thermos. “I’m going to put some wards on you. Okay? I don’t know much about warding against angels but I’m going to do my best.”

Castiel stared at the thermos, suddenly nauseous. “Is that—”

“Don’t get queasy on me. You’re gonna have to toughen up.” Ruby unscrewed the cap and dipped her finger in, then reached out to touch Castiel’s forehead.

He pulled back, shaking his head quickly. “No. No, I know something better. Give me the thermos.”

She drew away, frowning. “What?”

Castiel held his hand out. She handed him the thermos. “Sam taught me a sigil.” He dipped a finger into the thermos, shuddered at the sensation of the lukewarm, partially coagulated blood. He pulled it out, ready to draw the sigil on the window.

Then he noticed Ruby’s eager face, watching his every movement. He hesitated.

Angry as he might be at Dean and Sam for pulling him into this mess, he couldn’t rebel enough against his upbringing to think that demons were preferable to angels. And arming a demon with an angel-banishing sigil?

He held the thermos between his knees and pushed aside Dean’s coat. His bloody finger brushed the side of his shirt instead, in long, uncertain strokes.

Ruby looked disappointed, which Castiel counted as a victory.

It took a few dips into the thermos and a lot of concentration given the odd angle, but he copied the sigil that he’d seen on the table. He handed the thermos back to Ruby and let the design dry for a while before wrapping the coat back around himself tightly.

He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to keep the jacket forever, and as much as the idea of Dean accidentally banishing himself by touching his jacket wrong amused him, he didn’t want the sigil smudged.

He capped the thermos and handed it back to Ruby, who accepted it with a sour expression. “So what, now you’re covered?”

“We all are.” Castiel adjusted the coat so that it touched his shirt less. “If they find me, this will take care of it.”

Ruby fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare, but let it drop. “So. You gonna let us drive you to Sioux Falls?”

“I don’t want you at Bobby’s.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “We already know where he lives. You’re not giving away the D-Day plans here.”

“I don’t want you near Bobby.”

“Then we’ll drop you off at the town limits.”

Castiel grit his teeth. “I don’t _trust you_. Not around my family. Drop me off in Davenport like he said and leave me alone. I can hitch my way without you.”

Ruby studied him for a long, tense moment, her eyes seeming to take in every detail of him, from his shaking hands to his set jaw. She sighed. “Fine. Davenport. But Cas?”

He frowned at her.

“Don’t forget that sometimes, humans can be scarier than us.”

Castiel huffed as he sat back in his seat, because he was the _last_ person Ruby would have to tell about that. So far, angels and demons were actually up on humans in the “who has made life harder for Castiel” competition. Humans did have more time invested in it, but the fact remained.

He knew about humans.

The car ride passed in tense, unhappy silence, at least until Ellsworth put the radio on and began blasting loud country music. Ruby ignored it, but it grated on Castiel.

He’d never been so happy to see a welcome sign for a town he didn’t intend to stop in.

Ellsworth pulled over, gravel crunching under the truck’s tires. Once they were stopped, Ruby stepped out of the truck.

“You sure about this?” she said.

“Are you going to arrange to have a driver possessed and drive me off the interstate?” Castiel asked.

Ruby patted his head and he ducked away. “Kid, if we wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. Nope. If you get into any trouble out here, it’ll be good old-fashioned human psychopaths.”

“Then I’ll take my chances.” He walked out onto the shoulder of I-80 and stuck his thumb out.

Ruby sighed and climbed back into the car, rolling the window down and sticking a slip of paper in front of Castiel as Ellsworth pulled up next to him. “You change your mind, give me a ring.”

Castiel took the paper and shoved it into his pocket, then looked down the road. Ruby rolled up the window and Ellsworth drove away.

It took three hours in Davenport to find a ride he’d accept. The two men were going as far as Iowa City. They made him nervous, but they didn’t do anything to him. They were college students, they said, on the way to visit one of their brothers in the city. Castiel told them that he was going to visit family, too. They smiled politely and didn't press him. He supposed his voice probably sounded as choked as it felt.

Iowa City found him with a young hippie couple, who brought him to Des Moines; a deacon picked him up and brought him to Omaha, lecturing him the whole time about the dangers of hitchhiking.

Omaha to Sioux Falls was an older woman, frail and sweet. Her name, she said, was Muriel. She said that he looked cold, and should ride with her.

He thanked her, and when her response was that she was simply doing the Lord’s work, he froze in terror, panicked, and slammed his hand against the banishing sigil on his side.

Nothing happened, except that Muriel looked at him strangely and asked if he was quite okay.

When he met that question with tears that arose from both relief and exhaustion, she told him that she had a tupperware of snickerdoodles in the glove compartment and that he was welcome to have one; he looked famished, poor thing, and that she got emotional when she was hungry, too.

He ended up eating two.

Muriel said that she was going to visit her son who lived in Sioux Falls, and that she'd gotten a later start than she had hoped for, and that she was so grateful to have a companion to make sure she stayed awake on the drive. Driving was getting hard for her, she said.

Castiel, concerned, asked her if she often picked up hitchhikers.

She said no, this was her first time, but he'd looked so cold, and besides, she knew a good heart when she saw one.

Then she patted him on the arm.

He started crying again and she made him eat another snickerdoodle.

He warned her, very gravely, that picking up hitchhikers was dangerous and that she should refrain from doing it in the future.

She said that oh, yes, of course he was right. But she'd been right about him, hadn't she?

Castiel gave her a hug before exiting the car when she pulled up at the end of Bobby's driveway, and wished her a safe trip to her son's house. She said that he was a nice boy and made him take one more cookie.

It was nearly midnight—nearly twenty-four hours since he’d run from Sam and Dean—when he found himself at the end of Bobby’s driveway, staring at the house he thought of most as home. He felt his throat tighten, and ducked his head, rubbing his eyes.

He knew better than to think of himself as _safe_ here. This was just a respite, he knew. He couldn’t stay long or else he was likely to get Bobby hurt. But he needed this.

He staggered forward on weary legs, up the stairs, and to the front door. He raised his hand to knock.

The door creaked open and he looked up, staring down the barrel of a rifle.

A breathless moment passed.

The rifle lowered, Bobby’s face replacing it in Castiel’s vision.

The older man blinked twice, then shook his head.

“You don’t call, you don’t _write_ —”

“Bobby,” Castiel said, trying to suppress his relieved laughter and largely failing.

“Damn it, boy, get your ass in here before it freezes off.” Bobby unlatched the screen and opened it, lurching back a step when Castiel threw himself into a hug. “All right, all right.”

“Bobby,” Castiel repeated, unable to think of anything to say that could mean anything compared to the relief he felt. He just buried his face in Bobby's jacket, feeling it grow damp with his tears.

“Come on, you idjit. Let’s get you inside, get something warm in your belly, and then you’re gonna tell me what in the blazing hell you’re doing on my porch at goddamn midnight with no warning.” Castiel obeyed, limp with happiness, and let Bobby lead him into the kitchen.

Bobby deposited him on a chair and went into the fridge, opening the door wide as he searched for something—something for Castiel to eat, probably. The fridge was predictably empty, with the exception of a couple of beers, a few tupperware containers, and a box of orange soda.

Castiel frowned.

“Bobby?”

“Mm.”

“Why is there soda in the fridge?”

Bobby grabbed a tupperware out of the fridge and shut the door, moving to the cabinets to root around until he pulled out a saucepan. “What’d you say, boy?”

“Why is there orange soda in the fridge?”

Bobby stopped, turned, and frowned. “For that idjit big brother of yours,” he said. “Damn fool won’t drink nothin’ else, even though I told him he wouldn’t have any teeth left by thirty at the rate he’s going.”

Castiel felt the breath leave him in a rush, and he stumbled up and out of his chair.

“Gabriel is here?”

“Cas?”

Castiel whirled around.

Standing in the door frame with a bewildered look on his face was Gabriel, with Samandriel behind him, rubbing sleepy eyes.

Castiel was still for a long moment, drinking in the sight of his brothers, safe and home. No angels, no demons, no dead friends, just Gabriel and Samandriel and Bobby, like it was supposed to be.

He slipped his fingers beneath Dean’s jacket and touched the flaking, dried design of the banishment sigil, and smiled, relieved.

He was safe, and with his family, if only for a little while.

He stepped forward and the brothers all rushed into a hug, with Bobby, Castiel was sure, smiling at them from the stove.


	7. The Wild Ones: Chapter Six

  


Castiel went, once again, from starving to full of warm soup.

He inhaled the warm, spicy scent wafting from the bowl Bobby had given him—it was butternut squash. Castiel knew it had been a recipe of Karen’s. Bobby broke it out for special occasions, which meant that Gabriel and Samandriel must have arrived fairly recently.

Samandriel was sitting next to him, his head resting on Castiel’s shoulder, all but purring his contentment. “I’m really glad to see you, Castiel.”

“I’m glad to see you, too.” Castiel used his free hand to squeeze Samandriel’s arm, and smiled. He took two quick mouthfuls of soup and then turned his eyes to Gabriel, who was watching them with a smile that seemed inordinately sad for the occasion. “You, too, Gabriel.”

Gabriel kept smiling, but didn’t say anything, which made Castiel’s heart sink.

It had been a while since he’d been in touch with his brothers, it was true. But the years couldn’t have changed Gabriel _that_ much. His brother had always been quick with a comeback, and this tight-lipped silent treatment was worrisome.

“Gabriel?” His second attempt was met with more silence. He frowned up at Bobby, who made a point of not meeting his eyes.

“I’m glad you’re home.” Gabriel’s voice was quiet, and when he was done he got up from the table, pushed his chair in, and headed out of the kitchen.

“Gabriel,” Castiel called, but his brother didn’t stop.

Bobby sat heavily in the chair across from Castiel’s, a beer in his hand, and took a deep breath.

“Your brother’s been worried about you. Worried sick. Nobody’s heard from you in months, and even then we didn’t hear much. You just showin’ up, no explanation?” Bobby sighed and took a long pull of his beer, then ran a hand over his face. “We’re all glad to see you, boy. Don’t think we’re not. But it ain’t been easy on any of us, the not knowing.”

Castiel turned his eyes down, swallowing hard against the lump that had formed in his throat.

He could have called more often. He _should_ have. But to say what? To tell them the truth? No. They would have come for him, tried to find him, and he couldn’t bear that. They had their _lives_. He’d given his up when he ran away, but that was not something he could ask of his brothers.

He hadn’t ever wanted them to see him like this.

Gabriel was angry. He understood. He'd left, but he hadn't intended to disappear like he had. He'd planned to leave, get his feet under him, learn to take care of himself, and then come back to his family as a man. As someone his father couldn't hurt anymore.

That hadn't happened. He was no less easily hurt than he'd been when he left, and significantly more broken.

He pulled Dean's jacket closer around his body, more to cover the banishing sigil than to keep warm, and nodded solemnly. “I know, Bobby. I'm sorry. I should have.”

“You're damn right you should have,” Bobby said, but pushed over a bread basket with a couple of pieces of a homemade wheat loaf in it, which Castiel took as an acceptance of his apology.

“Where have you been, Cas?” Samandriel asked, his head still on Castiel's shoulder, tilted up to look his brother in the eye.

Castiel hesitated in tearing apart a piece of bread, took a bracing breath. “Illinois, mostly. Pontiac. That's sort of where I landed. A couple of other places but mostly the Pontiac area.”

“What did you do there?” Samandriel asked. Castiel's breath caught.

Bobby noticed, luckily. He stood, distracting Samandriel. “Kid, I think we still got some of that godawful cherry cobbler your big brother made, you want to get Cas a piece?”

The change of subject worked, proving that Samandriel's attention span was as short as it had ever been. He grinned at Castiel. “It's not godawful. Do you want some?”

Castiel smiled weakly. “Yes, please. I would love some.”

Samandriel bounded toward the fridge. Castiel turned grateful eyes to Bobby, who shook his head and rolled his eyes. Samandriel's back was still turned, so he said, “Don't think this means you've gotten out of talking about it,” but _very_ quietly.

Castiel nodded morosely. He hadn't thought he'd be so lucky.

Samandriel came back with two plates of cobbler. He grinned at Bobby when he got A Look. “I didn't want Castiel to have to eat alone,” he said, his eyes widening in exaggerated innocence.

“You and your biggest brother are _both_ gonna get fat,” Bobby grumbled, but let it slide.

The cobbler was perfect, crumbly and sweet and buttery, and so _Gabriel_ that Castiel felt tears prick at his eyes. Gabriel always used more butter than the recipe called for. More sugar, too, but somehow it was never cloying or too rich. They'd rarely had the luxury of treats like this when they were growing up, but Gabriel always made sure they had them for special occasions. Birthdays, Christmas. Having it now, on his homecoming after four long, hard years...it tasted like home. Like being safe.

Even if he was very very much _not_ safe.

The room seemed colder at that thought, and he wrapped the jacket around himself a little bit tighter.

“Where’d you get the coat?” Bobby sounded wary, and Castiel shot him an anxious glance. What could he possibly divine from the coat? Not the truth, of course—that was far too unlikely to be Bobby’s first guess—or thirtieth guess—but _something_.

“Some guy,” Castiel replied, before realizing that that was the single worst thing he could’ve said.

Bobby’s eyes darkened, and Castiel wished desperately he had said _I stole it off of my guardian angel after using a banishing sigil his brother drew for me so he wouldn’t take me away to start the Apocalypse._

“Some guy,” Bobby repeated.

Castiel looked away.

“Samandriel, go upstairs,” Bobby said.

Samandriel looked betrayed.

“He just got here and I'm not even done with my cobbler, and—”

“Samandriel.” Bobby had put on his dad voice, and Samandriel wilted under it, pausing only long enough to give Castiel a quick hug before slinking upstairs.

Castiel slumped down in his chair, resting his head against the back. Once the door to Samandriel’s room had shut, Bobby stood and rounded on him.

“The hell have you been doing, boy?”

Castiel screwed his eyes shut. “Bobby—”

“Don’t you _Bobby_ me. I want to know what you’ve been up to that you can steal jackets off men twice your size. Or did he give it to you? Was it a damn barter?”

“ _No._ No. It wasn't like that. I just—I got into some trouble, and I got away but I grabbed the coat on the way out.”

Bobby braced himself against the table. Castiel found that he couldn’t look him in the eye anymore.

“You coulda come to me,” Bobby said quietly.

“You can’t tell me this isn’t the first place my father looked after I left.”

Castiel could feel Bobby’s eyes on him. “You’re right. He looked here. But damn it, boy, he didn’t look here forever, and you’ve been gone from that house for four years. I would’ve helped you.”

“I know.” Castiel’s chest felt too tight. He rolled his spoon between his hands to distract himself.

Bobby was quiet for a long time. Castiel eventually gave in and looked up. The older man’s brow was furrowed, and it was with audible effort that he eventually said, “You been hurt, son?”

Castiel forced himself to keep looking at Bobby.

“It’s been hard.”

Bobby drew in a breath like he was about to yell, but when he saw Castiel brace himself, he let it out. He sagged, seemingly spent, and sat down.

“I know, boy. No, hell, you know what? I don’t.” He leaned over and gripped Castiel’s shoulder, and he melted into it. “I’m just glad you’re home, safe and sound.”

Castiel smiled weakly, in silent appreciation of the joke that was the word _safe._ Bobby’s smile, reluctant as it already was, faded. He studied Castiel’s face, and then sighed.

“It was _safe_ , wasn’t it?”

There was no use denying it, so he didn’t.

“What’d you get into?” Bobby didn’t even sound angry anymore, just tired. “Do I need to bring out something bigger than my shotgun?”

“You won’t believe me.” Castiel turned to him and shrugged. “ _I_ wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Castiel ran his hand over his face and gave a hollow laugh. “Okay. Um. I was—I was really low on money. And my friend Brady was trying to help me—to help me learn how to pick pockets.”

“Some friend,” Bobby scoffed.

Castiel felt a pang. Some friend indeed.

“So I went into this convenience store and tried it, but the guy I tried to steal from—he caught me, and he made me go to his motel room with him—don’t worry, he didn’t do anything, you know, like—but he took me to this motel where my friend Brady showed up, and the guy—the guy killed him because he said he was possessed by a demon—”

“A demon?” Bobby sat up straighter. “What’d this guy look like, Cas?”

“Bobby, hang on. I haven’t gotten to the weird part yet.” Bobby didn’t relax, but quieted, at least. “He killed Brady and then I—I stabbed him, but he didn’t die. It didn’t even really hurt him. So he knocked me out somehow and brought me to this other room where he told me he’s an angel. We kept running for a couple of days, going from motel to motel. Eventually his brother showed up and he’s an angel, too.”

“Cas,” Bobby said, “there’s no such thing as angels.”

“I know.” Castiel sighed. “But the first one—Sam—he showed me his wings. And they started talking about the Apocalypse and all this stuff and I had to get out of there. So I ran, and I came here.”

Bobby took off his hat, ran a hand over his head and put his hat back on—a classic Bobby _considering_ gesture.

Then he leaned forward and said, “I need you to tell me how your angel buddy—why your angel buddy thought your friend was a demon.”

Castiel frowned at Bobby. He’d expected more along the lines of _Goddammit, boy, how many times did you hit your head?_

“He was stronger than usual, meaner, too, but it was his eyes, Bobby. They turned black. Like, all black.”

Bobby sat back, propped his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands.

“I know. You’re gonna find the number to the nearest institution.” Castiel tried to laugh, but it came out more like a choking cough. “I don’t expect you to believe me. But Bobby—”

“I believe you, son.”

Silence.

Castiel opened his mouth, then shut it.

Then, “What?”

Bobby didn’t say anything for a while. Castiel waited, watching him. He looked older, suddenly, pale and drawn.

“There’s a lot I ain’t told you.” Bobby didn’t look up from the table. “A lot that I guess I should have. I didn’t mean to do wrong by you, son, and neither did your daddy.”

Castiel felt his hands begin to tremble.

“I don’t understand.”

“And you’re not gonna, not in this state.” Bobby stood and extended a hand, which Castiel took. “This is gonna need a rested brain, so you get some sleep.”

“I don’t think Gabriel wants me to share the room,” Castiel whispered as Bobby pulled him standing. He felt the tears threaten to spill as he said it. Bobby’s expression softened, and he guided him into the library.

“We got pillows and blankets for the couch, son. You and your brother can duke it out tomorrow and then fight over the beds.” Bobby led him to the couch and helped him down, grabbing pillows from an armchair and a couple of ragged old quilts. Castiel shrugged off Dean’s jacket and snuggled down under the blankets. “Sleep, boy. God knows you need it. Talk can wait til tomorrow.”

Despite his grief and alarm, he was warm, fed, and in the presence of his family. Castiel was asleep almost before Bobby was done talking.

The sun wasn’t fully up when Castiel woke.

He caught his breath raggedly, and buried his face in the pillow. He’d taken so many naps on this couch before that he knew precisely how much room he had before he rolled off, how far his toes could stretch. The familiarity soothed him, calmed him, almost as much as the overstuffed cushions and the warmth of the quilts.

He was about to try to fall back asleep when he realized why he’d woken.

A rifle cocked in the kitchen. He could hear it. And Bobby’s voice—

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I want you out of my house now.”

“I’m not here to hurt anyone. I just need to talk to Castiel.”

“The hell you do. That boy’s sleeping under my roof and ain’t nobody gonna go near him.”

A heavy footfall, a pause. Then the voice in the kitchen— _Sam_ —said, “He’s not asleep.”

“Aw, hell, boy, I don’t care if he’s sleeping or up doing the moonwalk, _you ain’t talking to him._ ”

Castiel threw the quilts onto the ground, scrambled off of the bed, and threw on Dean’s jacket, skidding on the blankets he’d just thrown. He stumbled into the kitchen and braced himself on the door frame.

“Bobby, don’t.”

“Castiel,” Sam said, sounding surprised and relieved in nearly equal measure. “You scared me, man, I didn’t think you’d take off like that.”

“This the guy you got the jacket from?” Bobby had raised the rifle again and had it aimed right above Sam’s ear. Sam didn’t even turn to look at him.

“His brother.” Castiel wrapped the jacket tighter around himself. “This is Sam.”

“The one who kidnapped you?” Bobby took a step closer. Sam did turn then, but he looked more confused than worried. “Yeah, Cas told me about you, you son of a bitch. Stealin' scared kids off the street. Ain’t you just a big fuckin’ man.”

Sam drew up, and his height advantage on Bobby became starkly apparent. Castiel took a step forward, to put himself between them, but Sam just shook his head and said, “I didn’t hurt him. That’s not why I found him. I'm here to help.”

“He doesn’t need help from whatever the hell you are. You can take your _help_ and get out of my house before I shoot you clean through your skull.”

“It won’t do anything,” Castiel said dully. Sam and Bobby both turned to him. He shrugged. “Will it?”

Sam studied him and frowned. “It wouldn’t kill me. No.”

“These are blessed salt rounds,” Bobby said, narrowing his eyes. “I ain’t a fool.”

Sam smiled grimly. “No, you’re not.”

He grabbed the barrel of the rifle and wrenched it out of Bobby’s hands, quickly and efficiently emptying it of the ammunition. Bobby froze, his hands still open as though his body hadn't caught up with what had happened.

Sam handed the rifle back, and Bobby took it cautiously. He showed Bobby the rounds, sitting in his hand, showed him the unmarred skin underneath the blessed and salted metal.

“You can’t hurt me, Bobby. Not like this.”

Sam turned to Castiel, who was frozen with his hand over the banishing sigil he’d painted on his shirt. Sam stilled, raising his hands. His wary tone matched his posture when he said his name.

“Castiel.”

Castiel drew his hand away from his shirt, letting the jacket fall back to cover it. He took in a shaky breath. “I didn’t want you to hurt Bobby.”

“I won’t.” Sam slowly reached out and handed the salt rounds to Castiel, who pocketed them in the jacket. “I just want to talk to you. I swear.”

“Okay.” Castiel glanced at Bobby, who was still glaring at Sam. Castiel knew he’d be calculating how far it was the next nearest weapon he’d stashed. “Bobby. It’s okay.”

“I’m just going to sit,” Sam said, his voice calm and soothing. He did so slowly, and held his arms away from himself when he was done: a _happy now?_ Gesture.

Bobby clearly was _not_ happy, but he sat, too, and Castiel took the seat between them after a long, uncomfortable pause.

“I’m listening,” he said.

Sam sighed heavily and leaned forward slightly, his hands spread again. Castiel wondered how long he’d been in that body. No, _vessel_ —that was the word Sam had used to describe Dean’s body, with the implication that it was new. Sam seemed like he was more comfortable in his, but still very aware of it. The size of it, how he appeared to others. To humans. It was comforting, how mindful he was about it; at the same time that very awareness never let Castiel forget what he was up against.

A clattering of footsteps sounded down the staircase, and Castiel's heart plummeted.

“Cas?” Samandriel’s voice was muffled, sleepy.

Gabriel’s was anything but as he barged into the kitchen.

“Who is this?” he demanded, staring in turn at Castiel’s pale face, the gun lying useless on the floor, and Sam, sitting in the chair. “What the hell is going on?”

Sam rose.

“You must be Gabriel,” he said, and held a hand out. “I’m Sam. I’m a friend of Castiel’s.”

“I find that _really_ unlikely.” Gabriel moved himself between Castiel and Sam, and glanced at Bobby for confirmation

Bobby sighed heavily. “He won’t leave, but he hasn’t done anything stupid yet.”

Gabriel scowled threateningly, and Bobby snorted.

“Boy, you might want to sit down before you get your ass handed to you.”

Gabriel made a noise of dissatisfaction, and did not sit down. Instead he went to stand next to Samandriel, towards whom Sam had been walking. The angel stopped, and Castiel could see his eyebrow lift in what he was pretty sure was amusement.

“Samandriel,” Sam said from the distance clearly prescribed by Gabriel. “It’s nice to meet another Sam.”

“You’re Cas’ friend?”Samandriel asked.

Sam hesitated, his eyes cutting to Castiel, then nodded.

“You’ve been taking care of him?”

Sam turned, brow furrowed, to look fully at Castiel, who shrugged.

“I’ve been trying to,” Sam replied, but his expression didn’t even out—just shifted, slightly. If it had been someone else, Castiel would have thought that perhaps he looked hurt.

“Oh, you have?” Gabriel said, taking a step towards Sam, who frowned at him.

Castiel saw his brother's eyes cut to Bobby's, saw Bobby nod, and realized what was going to happen about two seconds before it happened.

Gabriel pulled his knife—a wicked-looking thing, serrated and well-used—and took another step forward, his arm drawn back to sink it into Sam's heart.

Bobby had a pistol that had probably been hidden beneath the table and was swinging it up to draw a bead on Sam's head. Castiel could even see the way his finger tightened, ready to pull the trigger.

He also saw the expression that flashed across Sam's face—hurt and anger in equal measure, before resolving into resignation.

Castiel drew a breath to shout for them to put down their weapons, but before he could speak, Sam lifted his hands in a loose, easy gesture.

Gabriel and Bobby both stopped.

Just...stopped.

Castiel could see the stiff fear on their faces, frozen in the moment they had realized something was wrong, and he held his breath. Sam looked pained, but resolved, as he looked from Gabriel to Bobby.

Samandriel's eyes widened. Castiel was horrified to see him, too, reach for a weapon, perhaps a knife, something hidden in the waistband of his jeans, but Sam fixed him with a look and he hesitated.

“Samandriel,” Sam said quietly. “Don't.”

Samandriel's breath was coming quick and shallow, but he let his hands fall to his sides, staring up at Sam like he was waiting for further instructions.

Sam took the knife from Gabriel's hand and the gun from Bobby's, put them both on the table. He closed his hands into loose fists before bringing them back down to his sides.

Gabriel and Bobby both stumbled forward a step. Gabriel staggered all the way into Sam, who held him by the arms as he regained his balance.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Please don't do that again.” Sam's voice was rough, tight. He had a strained look like doing that had cost him. Castiel couldn't imagine that it had been physically difficult for him—it was a wave of his hand, after all—but maybe it had been unpleasant some other way.

It was somewhat comforting to think that he hadn't _liked_ doing it.

“I'm not going to let you hurt my brother,” Gabriel said, wrenching himself away. “Whatever you are.”

“I'm not going to,” Sam said. “I swear.”

“Your word means exactly fucking nothing to me,” Gabriel said, but he was pulled away more than he had been, his body leaning more toward Samandriel behind him than toward Sam, his expression cagey and wary.

Sam looked down at Gabriel for a moment before returning to his chair. Castiel thought it an unusual kindness, to put himself lower than someone who was yelling at him. He wondered why Sam did it.

Then again, it wasn’t like the angel needed a height advantage if he wanted to hurt any of them. He could’ve been in a vessel smaller than Gabriel and it wouldn't slow him down.

Sam shifted so that he could speak to the assembled humans together.

“Okay. I need you to listen to me. My name is Sam. I’m an angel of the Lord, and I’m here to protect you. Heaven and Hell are waging war and they want Castiel and Gabriel at the forefront.”

“What does that mean?” Samandriel asked, but Gabriel was already shaking his head.

“You're full of crap. There’s no such thing as angels.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, tilting his head a little. “There’s so much evil in the world, Gabriel. You know that. You've known that for such a long time. You can’t believe there’s something good to balance it out?”

Castiel saw Gabriel’s hands tremble. “I’ve never seen any proof that there might be.”

It took a while for Castiel’s brain to catch up to the conversation, but when it did, he froze.

Gabriel _knew_.

Not all of it. Obviously. Not about angels. But the way he was talking, the way Sam was talking to him…

He _knew_. About something in this. Demons, maybe, maybe not even anything specific, just that there were _things_ out there that Castiel had never imagined, never dreamt of until they were right in front of him, battling for control of him.

Had he known the whole time? Had Gabriel had kept it from him, never breathing a word, for his entire childhood? The idea left him reeling, and he barely heard Sam’s response to his brother.

“Let me be that proof, Gabriel. Let me help you.”

“I don’t think so,” Gabriel said. “I think you should leave.”

“Hell and Heaven want you and Castiel to agree to be vessels for my brothers, Michael and Lucifer, in the final acts of the Apocalypse.”

Sam’s voice seemed very loud in the kitchen, suddenly, strangely resonant, and Castiel clapped his hands against his ears.

Samandriel made a pained noise in the back of his throat and followed suit. Gabriel grit his teeth.

Castiel felt his eyes drawn to his older brother. When Gabriel looked up their eyes met, and he grew very still. He shook his head. Castiel wasn't sure what that meant—whether it was an apology or a _don't you be mad at me_ , or just _this is not the time_.

Castiel turned away.

“The hell?” Bobby, one hand over his ear, reached towards the rifle again before seeming to remember that it was empty.

Sam swallowed visibly and held his hands out. “Sorry. Sorry.” His words were quieter, now, singular: not the multitude of voices Castiel had seemed to hear before. “I need you to listen because Heaven and Hell are both after you, and they are going to do whatever it takes to pull you into this. Michael and Lucifer have to have vessels for their final fight, and you are their ordained vessels. They will stop at nothing to gain your consent. That includes hurting you, the ones you love, killing you—because they can just bring you back. They want you ready to say yes, and Castiel, they—”

He broke off, and Castiel's stomach turned.

After all that had been said, what could make Sam hesitate?

“They need you to go to Hell,” Sam said.

Silence fell.

Castiel opened his hands and shook his head, fumbling for words. Bobby filled in the gap.

“What’d you say?”

“They need Castiel to go to Hell. A Righteous Man needs to shed blood in Hell for the Apocalypse to move forward. They are going to try to force him—” Sam broke off, turning from Bobby to Castiel. “—to force _you_ to make a crossroads deal. To sell your soul to a demon in exchange for something.”

“Why would I do that?” Castiel spread his hands in front of himself, helpless. “Why would I even consider that?”

Sam looked down at Castiel’s hands.

“For the same reason anyone accepts a crossroads deal,” Sam said, his voice soft. “Because the alternative is unbearable.”

The angel sighed and addressed the group once more.

“You have to understand. You have to let me hide you, or teach you how to hide yourselves, because I don’t have much time. They’re after me. They know what I’ve done.”

“Did Dean tell them?” Castiel asked, surprised to find himself startled and even hurt by the notion. When Sam shook his head, he wondered at the relief he felt.

“I don’t think so. I think it’s more likely that someone just—said something in the wrong place.” Sam ran a hand through his hair, rolled his shoulders back, and then peered at Castiel’s shirt. “Looks like you memorized the banishing sigil pretty quick. Any chance you remember the one I drew under the table at the first motel?”

Castiel frowned, trying to recall the intricacies of it. “I remember the circle and the pentagram, but not the marks inside,” he admitted.

Gabriel sighed and when Castiel looked at him he was rolling his eyes. “A Devil’s Trap.”

He very purposefully did not meet Castiel's gaze.

“I’m assuming you can draw one,” Sam replied, his tone mild.

“Damn house is covered in ‘em,” Bobby said. “If it’s demons you’re worried about, this house is sealed and locked.”

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened his eyes and nodded.

“Yeah. No, you did a good job. I just wish it was _only_ demons I was worried about. Castiel, you need to draw some banishing sigils around the house—anywhere you or Gabriel might get cornered. It has to be blood. I need a piece of paper, please.”

Samandriel, still with an awe-stricken look on his face, ran into the library and came back with some printer paper and a pen.

“Here,” he said, breathless.

When Sam smiled up at him, he turned bright red.

“Thanks.” The angel clicked the pen open and started drawing an intricate hexagon shape, filled with tiny designs. “I know this is tricky, but this will ward angels away. When you draw them, they have to be precise.”

“What about you?” Castiel asked. “Will they keep you and Dean away, too?”

Sam’s hand stilled over the paper, but he didn’t look away. “Do you want the wards to keep us out?”

Castiel didn’t respond.

Sam’s lips tightened. He continued drawing, picking up the pace. “Fine. This one on the left has my name inscribed within the warding—an exception. If you draw this one, I’ll still be able to come here. Not Dean, just me. The next one I’m drawing will be to ward against _all_ angels, myself included. I’m leaving them open so they don’t affect me now, but connect that last line and they’ll be effective.”

“And we’re supposed to trust you,” Gabriel said.

Sam looked up at him and closed the pen. He handed Castiel the paper, never breaking eye contact with Gabriel. “You don’t have a lot of choice.”

Before Gabriel could come up with a retort to that, Sam snapped his head around to stare out the kitchen window.

“No, no, come on, _not yet_ ,” he hissed.

“Sam?” Castiel stood when the angel did, and had to jog to follow his quick steps towards the front door. “Sam! What’s going on?”

Sam stopped at the front door, Castiel barely managing not to slam into him, and took a deep breath.

“They’ve found us,” he said.

“Who?”

Sam turned around and surveyed all of them—Gabriel, Samandriel, and Bobby having followed after Castiel—before extending his arm. The silver blade that Castiel had seen on the night of Brady’s death slipped into Sam’s hand.

Sam looked down at the blade, his fingers curling and uncurling around it like it hurt him to touch it too long.

“My brothers.”


	8. The Wild Ones: Chapter Seven

  


Castiel held his breath as Sam opened the door.

The morning sun was bright, and he shielded his eyes against it. Once the glare had faded he could make out five forms in the yard in front of Bobby’s house, in a line. In _formation_ , he thought.

At the head was a dark-skinned man, who stood and surveyed the house with his lip curled into the suggestion of a sneer. The others were all still, facing the doorway, their bodies turned slightly towards the man in the center.

“Sam!” he called out. “Game’s over, Sam. Come on out.”

Sam ran his thumb over the grip of his blade, his shoulders rising and falling with his breath but otherwise totally still. Castiel peered around him to the—the angels, he supposed, who waited with an eerie patience.

“They’re here for me.” Sam barely turned his head, just enough for Castiel and the others to hear him. “Not for you. If they have me they’re likely to leave.”

“I can just banish all of you,” Castiel said, shifting Dean’s jacket aside so the dried blood was visible.

Sam shook his head. “No, the sigil’s damaged. Did you sleep in that?”

His tone was slightly accusatory, like Castiel should’ve known better than to sleep on a sigil. And okay, maybe so, but this was still very new to him. He hadn’t had much of a choice. Castiel frowned, and Sam sighed.

“You’d have to draw a new one,” Sam continued. “You’ll need fresh blood, human or angel. You can draw one once I’m outside, but I really don’t think they’re going to come after you. But if you banish us, they’ll know I’ve gotten that far in telling you about everything. It’s likely to get worse, then.”

“Did they find us because of you?” asked Gabriel, abruptly, from behind them. Castiel was about to respond—about to tell Gabriel to lay off, actually, when Sam took a deep breath.

“Probably,” he said.

“Then you go deal with _your_ dick brothers, and I’ll stay here and protect mine.” Gabriel glanced at Samandriel, who looked hurt, and he paused. “ _You’re_ not a dick.”

“Is this the time? Gabriel?” Castiel asked, narrowing his eyes.

Gabriel didn’t even look at him, so Castiel gritted his teeth and turned to Sam instead.

“Are they going to hurt you?”

Sam paused, looking at Castiel like he was just now seeing him, and started to shake his head. He stopped. “Maybe. I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is you staying safe. Bobby, bring Samandriel somewhere safe. He’ll go with you.”

Bobby hesitated, looking between all three Novaks, but eventually nodded. “Don’t get your idjit selves killed in my house,” he ordered, and led Samandriel upstairs.

“Gabriel, do you have chalk to draw the ward I gave you?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Okay. Good. Stay in here, and Castiel, whatever you see, _do not_ come outside. They want me, but they’ll take you, too. Victor won’t hesitate.”

Castiel felt a sudden, unexpected surge of panic at the idea of these angels taking Sam, of _Victor_ —the leader he’d seen, no doubt—taking Sam. That surge propelled him forward until he was gripping Sam’s sleeve.

They stared at each other for a moment. Castiel wasn’t sure who was more surprised.

“Castiel?” Sam’s voice was hesitant.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.” Castiel bit the inside of his cheek to try to contain his unsteady breathing before he continued. “I don’t—I don’t understand much of this, but you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to want something from me. I don’t know what I need to know yet. What am I supposed to do if they take you?”

It came out sounding more self-serving than he’d hoped— _what am_ I _supposed to do_ —but he didn’t know how else to say that he was frightened for Sam. How was he supposed to say that? How could a _human_ have the right to be scared for something like Sam?

But he remembered the empty sadness in Sam's voice when they had shared their stories of rejection at the motel. He remembered that fear as they had jumped from room to room, the panic in the moments before Sam knew that it was Dean who had found them.

Sam was frightened now. And Castiel was frightened for him.

He startled as he felt Sam’s hand wrap around his. The angel’s eyes were fixed on his. “I will do everything I can to come back to you. This isn’t the first time they’ve tried to take me, and I’m still here. But if you’re not safe, if you’re taken, then there will be nothing to come back to—not for me, not for anyone. Do you understand? You have to be your own priority for once.”

Castiel nodded, drawing his hand back and sticking both of his hands in his pockets. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t trust himself to.

Sam took a step toward the door, then, without turning, said, “The ward first. Then, if you need it, the banishing sigil. If you do the sigil, it needs to be drawn in blood.”

“I got it,” Gabriel replied from behind them. Castiel saw that he had the chalk already in his hand and was sticking the paper Sam had given him to the wall for reference. “You go.”

Castiel watched as Sam took a deep breath, braced himself, and stepped out of the house, shutting the door behind him.

He raced to the window and opened the curtains.

Sam walked out to the other angels, his blade clearly visible—but held wrong. He wasn’t threatening them, not yet. But his posture made it clear that he would react to an attack in kind.

He stopped a distance away from the angel Castiel thought was Victor. His voice didn’t carry into the house with the door closed, but he was gesturing broadly, though Victor didn’t seem moved. Sam’s case was made with sweeping arms and lots of gesticulation back toward the house, some toward the sky, and some toward himself and Victor. The last, especially, spoke to Castiel: the flat hand pressed to the chest then moving from Sam toward Victor in supplication. _We’re brothers. You and I._

“Castiel!”

Gabriel’s voice startled him and he let the curtains fall over the window.

“If you’re done checking out the angel’s butt you could come and paint the banishing sigil.”

Castiel felt a wave of relief and familiar annoyance at his brother's words, but it didn’t completely cleanse the anger, or the sense of betrayal he’d felt last night. But he obeyed nonetheless because that’s what he did—he listened to Gabriel.

“Where’s a knife?” he asked, but Gabriel handed him a small, shallow bowl already filled with half an inch or so of blood. Castiel saw that the edge of the bowl was smeared slightly from where Gabriel had passed it to him. He winced at the long cut across his brother’s palm.

“Don’t waste it.” Gabriel went back to drawing careful, intricate lines on the wall in chalk. “I made it myself.”

Castiel dipped his finger in the bowl and began painting the sigil on the wall, staying as close to the window as he could so he could peer out.

Sam was closer to Victor, now. His blade had been righted. He held it away from the other angel, but the threat was clear, now.

Castiel’s breath caught and he had to take his hand off of the wall so he didn’t make an error in the design.

“Castiel, get cracking.”

Victor had a blade in his hand, too, now—identical to Sam’s. Castiel _knew_ , without knowing how, that while _his_ meager little blade hadn’t done anything, _this_ blade would be enough to kill Sam.

He realized that Victor might not just _take_ Sam. He might kill him.

“Castiel, _come on_ , the blood is gonna dry and I don’t have that much to start with—”

Victor nodded toward the house. Sam drew up, his broad shoulders rolling back and the blade firm in his hand, stepping closer. They were in arm’s reach, now. Close enough for the blade.

Would Sam kill Victor?

No, there were four others. He’d never make it out if he killed one of them. Castiel was sure that even Sam couldn’t take on four other angels at once.

“ _Cas_!”

“Do _not shout at me!_ ” Castiel whirled around, the blood sloshing sickeningly in the bowl. Gabriel froze, stunned. Castiel drew a breath, then another. “Please. Don't—please.”

Gabriel continued to stare, nodded slowly. “Cas. You have to finish that sigil.”

Castiel nodded, too, flexing his bloody hand to relax the tense muscles. He turned back to the window.

His finger completed the last arm of the sigil right before he dropped the bowl, shattering it on the ground.

Victor had Sam by the throat, the tip of the blade pressed against his chest.

He was going to die.

Sam was going to die and it was going to be Castiel’s fault.

So despite his firm practice over the last several days of no prayer, don’t let them hear you, _don’t even think their names,_ he shut his eyes and he focused all of his intention, all of his fear, all of his wish for Sam to be saved, into a single word:

_Dean!_

Castiel felt himself rise like it was happening to someone else—

_Whatever you see, do not come outside—_

—and he gripped the handle of the door and swung it open—

—just in time to see Victor rear back and begin to plunge the blade into Sam’s chest—

—just in time to see Dean appear behind Victor and pull him away.

Victor fell to the ground. Dean stood over him and grabbed him by the lapels. Victor’s blade had fallen away, and Dean kicked it further.

Sam collapsed to the ground.

Dean pulled Victor close. His voice rang out across the salvage yard like a church bell, like judgment.

“If you ever touch him again, I will end you, angel or not.”

“You never could really see him, Dean.” Victor’s voice was thick and choked from Dean’s hold on him. “He blinds you. He will lead you to your Fall.”

Dean stepped back, still holding Victor, and surveyed the other angels.

“Castiel Novak is my charge,” he said, “and Sammy is my responsibility. I will deal with this. Return to your garrison, and you can spread the word: the next angel who touches Castiel or Sam will answer to me.”

He released Victor, who crouched to retrieve his blade. By the time he was standing, Dean’s weapon was also in hand.

The two angels faced each other, their weight forward on their feet like they were ready to spring at any moment, but Victor seemed less sure than he’d been with Sam.

“John will find him, Dean,” Victor said.

Castiel could see Dean tense at the word _John_ , and he wondered who that was.

Victor continued. “This is pointless. You'll just go down alongside him.”

“You tell John what I told your posse,” Dean said. “Hands off Sammy, hands off Cas. I have this under control.”

Castiel watched as Victor's fingers flexed over his blade, his eyes dropping to Dean’s. Dean smiled, a feral and fearsome thing even from Castiel’s distance.

“Oh, please. Give me a reason,” he said. “I’m begging you.”

Victor narrowed his eyes, but vanished along with the other angels.

Castiel ran outside as Dean crashed down next to his brother, who had managed to get himself kneeling. When he reached them, Dean’s hands were tangled in Sam’s hair and he was staring urgently at his brother.

“Did he cut you? Sammy! Answer me! Did his blade catch you?” Dean didn’t spare a glance for Castiel as he knelt by his brother. “Sammy, shit, come on, man.”

Sam swayed, nodded, and shrugged his overshirt off. Dean helped him out of his undershirt.

Castiel couldn’t contain his hiss at the wicked-looking, faintly glowing stab wound over the right side of Sam’s chest.

“Sit,” Dean ordered, and what Sam did in response was more of a collapse than real intentional sitting, but Castiel hurried behind him to support him. The angel was heavy—heavier than he’d expected—but he was able to prop him up, at least to an extent.

Dean slipped his hand around the back of Sam’s neck, forcing him to make eye contact. “It’s just a nick, Sammy. Stay with me. Cas’s got you, I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m gonna make this right.”

“Dean,” Sam rasped. “How—”

“Our buddy here put out the SOS. Lucky for you I had my ears on.” Dean pressed a hand over the injury, and Sam sucked in a ragged breath.

Castiel struggled to hold his position, but he couldn’t drop Sam, not now. Not after he’d almost died to protect them. He let Sam’s head fall back onto his shoulder, let Dean guide his brother’s broad back against Castiel’s chest.

He watched as Dean worked—not that he could see what he was doing. It just looked like he was touching Sam’s chest, but he knew that it was healing the wound. Just like they’d both healed him, back at the motel. He could almost see underneath Dean’s hand, not well enough to see the deepest part of the wound but enough to see the rough edge of the cut, where Victor’s blade had stuttered along Sam’s skin while Dean pulled him away. Those edges were knitting themselves together, sealing up that streaming light.

“Thanks.”

Castiel looked up at Dean, who hadn’t looked away from the wound. The angel spoke quietly, haltingly, as though expressing gratitude was a human custom he wasn’t familiar with.

“For calling me. For—I know you didn’t want to, and I don’t blame you. But I would’ve—I would’ve lost—”

Dean’s lips screwed down into a scowl, but Castiel could see the sheen of tears in his eyes.

Yes, Castiel thought. Angels did seem to feel brotherhood like humans did.

“Thank you for coming,” Castiel said, keeping his voice soft. “For saving him. Us.”

“It’s my job, Cas. Protecting him. Protecting you. You two make it fuckin’ hard, but it’s my job.” Dean pulled his hand away from Sam’s chest, and the skin was flawless, only marred by the blood from the wound. Sam heaved a deep sigh as Dean grabbed him by the forearm, helping him up. Castiel stood awkwardly after.

Sam swayed a little. Dean gripped his shoulder, steadying him. “Let’s get your stupid ass inside so we can figure out what the hell we’re going to do now, since I pissed Victor off.” He started off for the house. Castiel started after him, but Sam didn’t move.

“Dean.”

Dean turned, walked cautiously back to Sam. He opened his mouth, only to be cut off by Sam engulfing him in a desperate embrace.

Castiel hovered awkwardly at a distance, but was close enough to hear Sam say, “Thank you. Dean, thank you.”

“Shut up.”

“Dean, I know you don’t—”

“No, Sam, seriously, shut up.” Dean pulled away and framed Sam’s face with his hands. “If you’re suggesting you thought for a _second_ that I’d let that dick Victor hurt you—if you think I’d let _anybody_ put their hands on you—then you’re dumber than I thought you were. And I thought you were pretty dumb.”

Sam burst out laughing, helpless, surprised sounds, and Dean slung his arm under Sam’s and hauled him inside, unable to smother a grin of his own.

“Only one gets to punch that stupid face is me,” Castiel heard him mutter.

They walked into the house together. Castiel felt a shiver, as if he'd walked into a room with a radically different temperature. The wards were nearly complete.

Gabriel stopped midway through a line to stare at them.

As Dean passed Gabriel in the hallway he slipped out from underneath Sam’s arms, resting his brother gently against the wall. He grabbed the chalk from Gabriel’s hands.

“Hey! Who the fuck are—” Gabriel began, indignant, but Dean cut him off.

“Your brother’s Heavenly babysitter. Just gonna slip me and Sammy’s names in here real quick.” Dean’s fingers moved quickly over the design, adding characters in the outline of the hexagram and finishing the rest of the lines Gabriel had still been painstakingly measuring out.

“And what if we don’t want you here?” Gabriel demanded, uncowed when Dean turned to him.

“Too fucking bad.” Dean tossed the chalk back and grabbed the template off of the wall. “Good luck telling the Enochian for our names apart from the Enochian that keeps the douchebags out.”

“Obviously it’s not keeping _all_ the douchebags out,” Gabriel grumbled, frowning at the design as if it had betrayed him.

Dean rolled his eyes. He glanced up the stairs when footsteps announced Bobby and Samandriel coming back down. “Ah, the rest of the goon squad.”

“Anybody dead?” Bobby’s words belied the anxiety—the _fear_ that Castiel could hear in his voice. That wasn’t something he’d ever heard from Bobby before. It made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Everybody’s alive, Bobby,” he called back. “We’ve got extra company, though.”

Bobby arrived at the bottom of the stairs and held Samandriel back behind him, glaring suspiciously at Dean. “I hope you sons of bitches don’t eat too much, ‘cause I barely got enough for these idjits.”

“Dean saved us,” Castiel said. He felt it was important that Bobby knew.

The old hunter narrowed his eyes further. “I still ain’t got much food.”

Dean laughed, but it was a weary sound, He went back to pick Sam up off the wall. “No food, thanks. Think you can find me somewhere to set him down? I’d say he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother, but he’s really both.”

“This way.” Castiel ducked in front of Dean and led him into the library, where he gestured to the couch. Gabriel snuck in ahead of _him_ , in turn, and pulled out a sheet from under the couch.

It was off-white, stained in lots of places—stained with blood. Dean didn’t look twice, just held Sam until Gabriel had spread the sheet out. The two of them laid Sam on top of it.

“That’s for all the times someone’s come in bleeding from a fight against a demon or something, I suppose,” Castiel said when Gabriel retreated, giving the angels their space.

Gabriel took a deep breath. He looked more hesitant talking to Castiel than he’d ever seemed before. _Guilty_ , maybe. What a nice thought, but he didn’t find it likely. “Don’t be mad, Cas. I couldn’t tell you. Don’t be mad at me.”

“They _came for me_ , Gabriel.”

Castiel clenched his hands into fists, and felt Gabriel’s eyes heavy on him. He didn’t care; he _wanted_ Gabriel to hurt. He had had no right to keep this from him, for so long. And if his brother couldn’t have anticipated how it would all fall out, it wasn’t relevant. There were _demons_ in the world. _Angels_ , and who knew what else. How was Castiel supposed to protect himself without knowing? How many times had he been so vulnerable, so ignorant of all the things that could hurt him?

“They came for me when I had no one.”

“And whose fault is that?” Gabriel snapped. “You didn't have to leave.”

The words hit like a physical blow, and Castiel took in a shaky breath. “You—Gabriel. You _know_ why I left. Gabriel, you _helped me pack_. You said I had to get out.”

A flash of what might have been guilt passed across Gabriel's face, but it returned to stoniness. “Doesn't mean you had to never come back. You're a big boy, now, Cas. I think you could've stood up to Dad by now.”

Anger hit Castiel like a wave. “That's not—”

“Now is not the time,” Bobby said quietly from behind them.

From the couch, Sam laughed. It was hoarse, and it turned into a cough halfway through, but it was the first noise he’d made since coming into the house, so Castiel took it as the relief it was. He propped himself up on his elbows and grinned a kind of lopsided grin at Castiel and Gabriel.

“You sure they’re not supposed to be _our_ vessels, Dean?” he asked. He didn’t seem to notice the way Dean stilled. “That sounds like a familiar fight.”

“You need to rest.” Dean pushed Sam down gently, glaring at the wound. “You also need to shut up before you say something you don’t mean to.”

Sam looked up at his brother and nodded, looking subdued.

“I’m gonna go get some air.” Dean turned and left the house, closing the door behind him.

An uncomfortable silence fell in the living room, multiple opportunities for awkward conversations hanging over them. The quiet felt precarious, like any errant word would be the one that tipped them over into a fight about any one of the numerous possibilities.

“Castiel.”

He looked up at Sam’s voice, which sounded small and hesitant.

“I just—thank you. For calling Dean.”

“I didn’t want you to die.”

Sam chuckled, staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah. Me, neither.” He sighed, rolling back his shoulder and hissing slightly as, Castiel guessed, the movement pulled at his newly-healed skin. “Can you—can you go check on Dean? He gets—down, when something happens to me.”

Castiel froze. “I don’t—know what I could say, Sam. I don’t think he wants to see me right now, he said he needed some—”

“I know what he said.” Sam smiled sadly. “He’s worried. He’s not gonna do anything to you, Castiel, I promise. I wouldn’t ask you otherwise. Please, just—just ask him to come back inside, inside the warding.”

He was about to argue—this wasn’t fair, he shouldn’t be responsible for Dean’s welfare, he could take care of himself—but Sam looked so tired. And that was Castiel’s—not his _fault_ , not precisely, but it was _because_ of him. Sam had almost died trying to protect him. He could go outside and talk to Dean.

“Okay,” he said. Sam closed his eyes and smiled.

He was in the hallway, almost out the door, when Bobby stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “You gonna be safe out there, boy?”

The curtains were still pushed aside where he’d watched Sam face off with Victor, so he could see Dean sitting on the steps, head in his hands, looking remarkably fragile and human. He wasn’t fooled.

“He’s not going to hurt me.”

“And he ain’t gonna _take_ you?”

Castiel looked up at Bobby, and shook his head. “I believe Sam. When he’s felt that Dean is a danger, he’s told me. If he says I’m safe, I believe I’m safe.”

He took another step before Bobby caught his arm, and said, “Leave the door open. He starts lookin’ shady you come back in or you holler good and loud.”

“If he tries something, Bobby, I won’t have time.” He didn’t want to alarm Bobby, didn’t want to sound grim—but whatever Bobby already knew about the supernatural, he needed to understand what Castiel knew. He needed to understand that the only times he’d gotten away from an angel were when another was aiding him.

He guessed, at some level, that he wanted him to understand what it meant that he was putting his trust in Sam.

Bobby didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, so Castiel was able to get out of the house without further impediment.

He did leave the door open, though.


	9. The Wild Ones: Chapter Seven (point five)

  


  
Dean didn’t look up as Castiel approached. His head was still bowed. There was a laxness about the cant of his shoulders that suggested a weariness that went beyond the physical. Castiel sat down next to him.

“Sam wants you to come inside.”

Dean huffed a laugh. “Yeah? And what about Bobby? It’s his house. Does he want me in it?”

“I don’t think he minds. He knows what you did for us.”

“What I did for you.” Dean propped his elbows on his thighs and cradled his face in his hands. “And what about day before yesterday?”

“Bobby doesn’t know what happened at the motel. Not all of it.”

“I’m guessing that Sammy explained what’s up.”

Castiel leaned forward, elbows on his knees, peering off into the wooded area beyond the salvage yard. “He got farther this time.”

Dean turned his head, forehead still cupped in the palm of his head, and watched Castiel’s face.

“He, um.” Castiel tilted his face away from Dean. He didn’t want the angel to see how hard it was for him to say this. “He told me that, um. That I have to go to Hell for the Apocalypse to happen. And I know—that’s what you want. For me to do that. Start the Apocalypse. Go to Hell.”

Dean sighed, a heavy, weary sound. “Cas—”

“And to shed blood in Hell,” Castiel continued. “I’m not even sure what that means, Dean, but I—I don’t understand. I thought you said I was your charge. I thought you said you were here to guard me.”

“I _am_.” It sounded like a plea. “Cas, I am.”

“I don’t understand how someone who’s supposed to be protecting me can want me to be condemned to Hell, and to do more evil there.” Castiel felt his heart rate pick up, felt his hands start to shake. “I don’t—I don’t understand how you can be my guardian angel but guide me towards…that.”

“I’m not your guardian angel, Cas”

Castiel turned, frowning. “What?”

Dean leaned over and ripped a long blade of grass from the dirt, shredding it methodically as he spoke.

“I’m not—it’s not like you think it is. I wasn’t assigned to keep bad things from happening to you. I was assigned to keep you on the path that’s been...I don’t know, ordained, or whatever. And to keep you safe until you could do your duty. We’re not here to perch on humans’ shoulders. We’re warriors of God.”

“I’ve read the Bible,” Castiel said. He wasn’t sure what hurt more—the revelation that Dean wasn’t here to protect him, or the implication that he was too stupid to know what angels really were. Especially by now, he knew. “So protecting me isn’t part of this arrangement.”

Dean sat up straight. “That’s not what I said.”

“Maybe not. Just that it’s more important to make sure I’m damned to Hell so that I can start the Apocalypse than it is to help me survive. I’m sorry if I don’t see the difference.” Castiel stood up stiffly and dusted his jeans. “Sam wants you inside. That’s all I should have said anyway.”

“ _Cas_.”

Dean’s hand was around his ankle. The grip was tight enough that Castiel knew he couldn’t break it. He was released only a moment later, though. Perhaps a flash of fear had crossed his face, because Dean looked apologetic.

“The difference is that I was _assigned_ to make sure you fulfill your role. But I w—I _want_ to protect you.”

Castiel didn’t understand why Dean looked so _frightened_ when he said that, so exposed. Vulnerable. He’d seen those large, lost eyes in the mirror before.

He sat back down.

Dean took several steadying breaths, and said, his voice hushed like he feared being overheard, “Things are fucked, Cas. Upstairs. Angels are dying and that doesn’t happen, and everybody’s being real cagey about the orders we’re receiving. This thing with Victor today—that shouldn’t have happened. If there had been an order to call Sammy back to Heaven, I would’ve heard it. But there wasn’t. Victor and his asshole posse weren’t here on garrison business, so I don’t get what they were doing.”

“Personal grudge?” Castiel asked.

Dean shook his head. “Angels don’t do that. Or, we’re not _supposed_ to. We don’t—we don’t do things on our own. Free will? That’s for you. Not for us.”

Castiel frowned. “I find that hard to believe, having met you and Sam.”

That earned him a reluctant laugh. “Yeah, well, everybody always said me and Sammy came off the factory lines a little crooked. But Victor didn’t. So something’s up, and it…”

Dean bowed his head again. Castiel repressed the urge to pat him on the shoulder.

When he continued, it was even softer. “It makes me doubt, Cas. It makes me doubt my orders.”

The tentative hope that Castiel felt was probably not the appropriate reaction to show Dean, so he kept that inside. It was hard to accept it anyway—it wasn't like there had been much in his life in the last years that had warranted hope. It was a strange sensation, a rising lightness in his chest that every instinct told him to push down, to ignore. And even if this was only relative, even if it was only the difference between _you’re definitely going to be sent to Hell_ and _you_ might _get sent to Hell_ , it was more than he'd known in a long time.

On the outside, though, he said, “I suppose that’s not something that angels do, either.”

“Never.” Dean tilted his head up and squinted at the cloudless morning sky. “We have our orders, and our orders come from our Father. They’re never wrong. They can’t be, because they come from Him. But…what if they don’t come from Him? Who do they come from?” Dean looked vaguely queasy. “John? Some other general who hasn’t been to Earth in millennia? Pulling the strings on the _Apocalypse_?”

“Does that mean...you don’t think I have to go to Hell?”

Dean didn’t answer for a while. He stared out into the salvage yard, looked back, studied Castiel, ran his hands through his hair.

“Cas, I fucking hope you don’t,” he said eventually. “But everything I’ve been told says that it’s fate. That you and Gabriel are there for the prize fight. And I just—I don’t know if you can change fate, Cas. I don’t.”

“But you wish you could.”

“If it’s possible, then I hope _you_ can.”

Dean stood and offered a hand down to Castiel, who accepted the help.

Together they walked back into the house. Castiel nodded at the silent _are you okay?_ he got from Bobby immediately upon stepping through the door. Dean went straight for the couch, where Sam was evidently in the middle of answering a million questions from Samandriel.

“I do have wings,” Sam said, as Samandriel stared up at him in awe from his place sitting cross-legged on the floor. “You just—humans don’t have enough senses to perceive them. They’re nothing you can see with your eyes.”

“But you can fly?”

“Yeah. If you see us disappear, that’s us flying away. We just do it faster than you can follow.”

“How fast?”

Sam looked up at Dean’s arrival. He gave a relieved smile. “Sorry, buddy, gotta push this conversation back for a minute.”

“We’re going,” Dean announced. He helped Sam stand up, checked the wound again, and nodded. “You’re good to fly.”

“Where are we going?” Sam asked, looking past Dean at Castiel with an expression that clearly said _what did you do?_ Castiel shrugged helplessly.

“We’ve got some research to do, little brother.” Dean put an arm beneath Sam’s to support him.

“That...is not a sentence I ever expected to hear from you,” Sam said, sounding amused.

Dean ignored him and turned to Castiel. “You need anything, you pray. Chalk more of those wards up, more sigils, just in case. Have Gabriel and Bobby make sure your Devil’s Traps aren’t broken anywhere and check your salt lines. They’ll know what that means. I know you’re not stupid, but any weakness right now could be it. You got me?”

“I do,” Castiel said.

Dean grinned, but it lacked the bright charisma that he’d seen previously.

Both angels disappeared.

“ _Woah_ ,” Samandriel breathed.

“They took off?” Gabriel walked into the room. Castiel frowned. He looked...off. His movements were a little looser, his eyes drooped, and his speech wasn’t as clear as it usually was. “Good riddance. Dicks.”

“Those _dicks_ saved our lives today at the risk of their own,” Castiel said, studying his brother through narrowed eyes. “We’re in trouble, Gabriel.”

“Yeah, ‘cause of them. Like I said. Good riddance.” Gabriel walked—carefully, deliberately—to the couch, threw off the blood-stained sheet, and sat heavily.

Castiel looked at Bobby, who shook his head and walked into the kitchen, followed by Samandriel.

Castiel hovered awkwardly in the doorway. “Gabriel? Are you okay?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I don’t know, Cas. Are _you_ okay? We almost got nuked by fucking _angels_.”

“Which isn’t surprising you nearly as much as I thought it would,” Castiel said bitterly. “We need to talk about that.”

“Now?” Gabriel groaned and threw his head back onto the pillow dramatically.

“Now.” Castiel marched over to the couch and stopped short when he got close. He reached down and grabbed Gabriel’s arm, shoving up his sleeve.

“ _Shit_ , Gabriel.”

Tiny, evenly-spaced pinpricks lined the inside of Gabriel’s forearm, too familiar to Castiel. He’d seen them a thousand times.

“What are you doing, Gabriel?”

“None of your business.” Gabriel pulled his arm away and shoved his sleeve down. “Not like you have any room to judge.”

It was like a slap to the face, but Castiel did his best to let it slide.

“Gabriel, you _can’t_ —not right now, not when we’re—”

“Cas. Castiel.” Gabriel’s voice was soft now, confidential, and a little tremulous. Castiel quieted. “Cas, I—don’t tell Bobby.”

“Gabriel—”

“We’ll talk. Okay? I’ll tell you how I know about this shit, I’ll tell you why you don’t, but don’t--don’t tell Bobby.” Gabriel gripped Castiel’s wrist. “ _Please_.”

Castiel hesitated, then sighed. “You’re going to tell me _everything_.”

“Soon. Yes. Eventually. I promise.”

Castiel scrubbed his face with his hands. “I wonder if now would be a good time to take up drinking.”

Gabriel grinned, a watery thing that looked wrong on his face. “You and me both, brother.”


	10. The Wild Ones: Chapter Eight

  


Night had fallen, dinner was over, and Samandriel was upstairs reading before bed. Castiel, Gabriel, and Bobby were still seated around the table, the dishes done and put away, as conversations that needed to be had hovered in the air above them.

Castiel had a book of sigils open. Gabriel had been trying to help him learn a few, but eventually the tension had gotten to be too much. They had settled down to ignore each other.

Now, Bobby and Gabriel were talking quietly about something Castiel didn’t understand. Some _hunt_ a town over. Castiel was doing his best to not eavesdrop, not because he valued their privacy so highly, but because it stung to be reminded of how little he really knew about his family.

At least Gabriel had come back down from his apparent high, though he looked grumpy and hung over, trying hard not to look too drowsy. Castiel could see how he moved his limbs slowly, carefully, so Bobby didn’t notice. It worked, because without even an odd glance, Bobby announced that he was going to paint some sigils in something he called the “panic room,” and left down the stairs.

Watching Gabriel, Castiel swallowed back a comment that would undoubtedly end in a fight, and stood. “I'm going to try to go do some research.”

Gabriel peered up at him, frowning.

“Okay. I'll go check on Samandriel.”

Castiel couldn't tear his eyes away as his brother stood, tentatively, moving like an old man as he walked up the stairs.

He shook his head and walked into the library. Not thirty seconds later, as soon as he'd sat down with a book in hand, he heard a faint rustling sound.

“Cas.”

He startled, dropping the book, then pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Dean.”

“My brother here?” Dean sauntered over, his shoes heavy on the floor, but as Castiel looked up he saw that there was a tension in his shoulders, his jaw, that gave lie to his easy tone.

“No, Sam isn’t here.” Castiel stood. “I thought the two of you were together.”

“Yeah, no, we were, but he took off to go find something and he didn’t come back.”

Castiel glanced at the clock. “You’ve been gone barely twelve hours, Dean. Maybe he got lost.”

Dean grinned, and while it was strained, he still managed to look both amused and condescending. “Yeah, it hasn’t been long, but, uh, _angels_ , Cas.”

Castiel frowned, and Dean's grin slipped.

“You haven’t seen my brother.”

“No.” Castiel felt warm, suddenly, and shrugged off the jacket. He stared at it for a moment, then handed it sheepishly to Dean.

The angel shook his head, though, seeming distracted. “No, it’s okay, you keep it. He didn’t stop by or anything?”

“No,” Castiel said. “I haven’t seen him at all. Why? Do you think something happened?”

“I don’t know.” Dean walked past him and sat on the arm of the sofa. “He said he was gonna go find some text or another, but it should only have taken him a second.” He looked up. “I mean literally a second. He’s been gone for four hours. I can’t find him, and he’s not listening when I call.”

“Should I try?” Castiel asked. When Dean nodded, he closed his eyes.

He probably didn’t have to, but he felt like it was decorous.

_Sam?_

He waited.

_I—pray to the angel Sam, for his intercession and—presence._

Nothing.

_Sam, are you there? Dean’s looking for you. We’re worried._

He gave it thirty seconds—because if Sam could hear him at all, it wouldn’t take thirty seconds for him to give a response—before shaking his head.

“He’s not answering me, either, Dean.”

Dean curled his right hand into a fist and drew it up, though he stopped short of banging it against the wall, probably in deference to Bobby’s need to retain the framing of his house. He pressed his hand flat against the surface instead, flattening his fingers against it until his nails turned white under the pressure. “Something’s wrong.”

“He’s been on his own for a while, right?” Castiel asked. “Even if something’s gone wrong it doesn’t mean he’s in trouble, does it? I mean, he knows how to take care of himself.”

Dean shook his head. A muscle in his jaw jumped, and Castiel realized he was perhaps holding back tears. “I gotta find him,” he said. “I lost him for almost four years, I gotta find him.”

Castiel put his hand awkwardly on Dean's arm, then withdrew it when Dean looked puzzled.

“I think it's Heaven,” Dean said. It sounded like an admission—as though he was confiding in Castiel.

He sounded terrified.

“They'd know to leave me out of the call for his return, now. After what I did to Victor. I think they have him, Cas. They're gonna stick him in re-education. They’ve been after him all this time, for defection, for rebellion, for just being Sammy and not toeing the line.”

“How sure are you?” Castiel asked. “Maybe we just need to give him some more time.”

Dean shook his head. “He knows he's in trouble. And that you're in trouble. He wouldn't go this long without contacting me, not if he was okay.”

He laughed humorlessly. “He's an insufferable dork and has about twelve of the recommended serving sizes of stubborn, but he—he'd let me know. He'd let me know if he was okay. He's not okay, Cas.”

“Let me go find Bobby,” Castiel said. “Maybe he can help us.”

Dean nodded, a vacant, distant look in his eyes. Castiel escaped down to the stairwell. He opened the door that led into the basement, and shielded his eyes against an unexpected bright light.

He was fairly sure that the stairwell did not used to lead into a large, pristine, white room.

But it was a large, white room that he walked into, ornately decorated, with paintings set in elaborate frames, elegant statuary, gold trim along the walls and door frames. A large claw-footed table sat in the middle of the room, set at its head by a single chair. A loveseat and a sofa sat almost as afterthoughts in the corners.

He turned on his heel, ready to go back upstairs and tell Dean what had happened, but he was faced only with blank wall. The door was gone. He was trapped.

Castiel stared around himself, an increasing sense of fear undermining any wonder he might have felt. This was not right. Nothing about this was right. A sense of waiting hung in the air, a deliberate patience that could not have been more unnerving if the room had been staring at him. Nonetheless he ran his fingertips gingerly over the gold trim, studied the statues with wide eyes. He raised his hand to run it down a frame.

“Castiel Novak.”

Castiel jumped, spun around, holding his hands up to show that they were empty. To show that, this time, he was not a thief.

A man was sitting in the chair at the head of the table. He was a tall man, Castiel could tell, even though he was sitting. Standing, he would probably be taller than Castiel. But more than that, he radiated a sense of quiet authority, a confidence that could not be faked. He sat patiently, relaxed into the seat without slumping. His head was tilted slightly, like Castiel was something vaguely puzzling, mildly interesting.

Castiel said nothing. He stared.

The man gestured to his left. “Have a seat,” he said.

“There's only one chair,” Castiel said, finding that his voice would not raise above a whisper, no matter how strong he wanted to sound.

The man raised an eyebrow.

Castiel looked at the place where he'd gestured. There was indeed another chair. The man's lips quirked up into a faint smile. Castiel flushed, knowing that it was at his expense.

There had not been two chairs. He was _sure_.

He walked over and sat down obediently, profoundly unsettled by this man in a way that he could not articulate. He sat as far back as the chair allowed, keeping his hands folded on his lap, raising his eyes to the man only every few seconds. The rest of the time, he looked down at his hands, saw the way they wrung themselves almost without his volition, the way his knuckles grew white under the pressure. He tried to force himself to be calm. It was only minimally successful.

“Do you know who I am?” the man asked.

Castiel shook his head.

The man seemed satisfied by that answer, leaning over slightly toward Castiel. “My name is John, Castiel.”

“John,” Castiel echoed, feeling his heart begin to race.

John. Generals who have not been on earth in millennia John, 'John will find him, Dean'...none of what he'd heard about this angel had made him feel like he was someone to be alone in a room with. Less so than the angels he'd already met. John had Sam on the run. If he was something that Sam would run away from, what would he do to Castiel?

“Nothing,” John said, and Castiel thought for a panicked moment that he'd spoken aloud.

It was a more panicked moment when he realized that John had read his mind.

The angel almost smiled again, just the faintest expression of amusement.

“I'm not going to do anything to you. Just talk. The room will provide anything you need...food, drink.”

Don't take food in faerie land, Castiel thought desperately. _Pomegranate seeds_ , he thought, _like Persephone—do not take food or you will be trapped_. So he shook his head.

“No, thank you.”

John narrowed his eyes, disapproving.

“So polite. Your dear departed mother would be proud.”

Castiel tensed.

“But food or not, if I want to take you, I'll take you. If you're hungry, you might as well eat.”

A surge of anger rose, coupled with a surge of terror, but he released the death-grip that he had on his own hands and settled his palms on the arms of the chair. He gripped the arms tight, the polished wood biting into his palms, and said, “If you're trying to tempt me with food, you should have found me a week ago.”

John's eyebrows rose.

“Besides,” Castiel said, satisfied with the reaction he'd gotten, “that was Sam's tactic. Maybe you can try something new.”

John did smile, then. It was slow and sharp, a snake baring its fangs. “Ah, Sam,” he said. “Yes. My errant little one.”

“Do you have him?” Castiel sat up straighter. He resisted the urge to shrink when John's gaze fixed on him.

“Interesting.” John tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair, a methodical, hypnotic motion that Castiel tore his eyes away from. “He tricks you and kidnaps you and kills your best friend, and your first concern is for him. Heaven has Sam, Castiel. You don't need to know any more about Heaven's politics than that.”

Castiel's hands began to shake from exertion as he held the ends of the chair's arms.

“But I didn't come here to talk about Sam. I came here to talk about you.” John leaned back again. “I have a proposition for you, Castiel.”

“Is the proposition for me to go to Hell and let myself be possessed by an angel?” Castiel asked. “Because Dean has already offered that.”

John didn't move for a while, just studied Castiel with a penetrating, even gaze that eventually made Castiel drop his eyes, cursing himself for flinching first even as he did so. But little as he wanted to give the angel the win, he couldn't last against that gaze. He thought it had been difficult to maintain eye contact with Sam, or Dean, but nothing like this.

There was no sympathy in John's eyes. No pity. Not even the enthusiastic curiosity he saw from Dean. Just calculation. Just cold analysis.

“I'm offering you the chance to do something worthwhile with your pitiful life,” John said.

The words were unexpectedly harsh after the quiet, easy authority of John's words before.

“I'm offering you the opportunity to give rise to Heaven on Earth. Literally, Castiel. I'm offering you the opportunity to host Michael, to enable him to come to your plane and annihilate all suffering, end this for good. It is a sacrifice, yes. But a worthier one you couldn't ask for. So whatever foolishness Sam has filled your head with, look past it. Think about the end goal, Castiel. Paradise. For your family, for you. Happiness.”

“After Armageddon,” Castiel said.

John frowned.

Castiel laughed hollowly. “Little as anybody seems to believe it, I have read the Bible. I have read Revelations. I know what comes before Paradise. I know what my sacrifice would mean for humanity, in the years before the end. I may be human, but I am not stupid.”

The silence that fell was thick and ominous.

“Is that your answer?” John asked.

Castiel pressed his lips together, and nodded.

John nodded, too. “Fine.”

He stood up. Castiel watched him warily, watched his sleeves for the silver glint of his blade, but he simply walked toward the door.

At the threshold, he stopped, turned, and said, “I'm sure Sam would be proud of you. I'll let him know you're refusing to cooperate, if he's able to think past the torture.”

Castiel froze, and the room dissolved around him.

He ran back up the stairs, his previous mission forgotten, barreling toward Dean because he had to tell him, Dean had to know _immediately_ , how had John even gotten past the wards?

On his way up, though, he froze, staring at the walls to either side of the stairwell.

They'd covered them in sigils, banishing sigils and wards and Devil's Traps and _everything_. But all of the wards and angel-related sigils were damaged.

Thin cuts, narrow scratches, deliberate and quick. Somebody had let John in.

He doubled his pace, flying upstairs like the hounds of Hell were at his heels—and, for all he knew, they might be.

At the thought a hysterical laugh bubbled up to his lips. He bit it back.

He barreled into the library, where Gabriel and Bobby were talking to Dean. They broke off as soon as he entered. He noticed peripherally that they were all ashen-pale, but it seemed less important in the moment than his news.

“It was John,” Castiel gasped.

Dean went very still.

“The sigils downstairs were chipped. I went down to look for Bobby and he—there was a room there, a white room, and he told me that Heaven has Sam. He tried to convince me to say yes to Michael but he said that Heaven has Sam. I said no, Dean, I promise, I said—”

“You're sure Heaven has Sam,” Dean interrupted, his voice a thunderous rumble. Castiel quieted abruptly.

He nodded.

Dean exchanged portentous looks with Bobby and Gabriel. Now that he'd caught his breath, Castiel realized that there were tears in Gabriel's eyes.

“What's wrong?” he asked. “What happened?”

Bobby shook his head, not meeting Castiel's eyes. “Boy—”

“Heaven has Sam,” Dean said.

Castiel looked to him.

“And Sam has Samandriel.”

Castiel reeled, stumbling back until his leg knocked the couch, catching himself on the arm.

“Samandriel is gone?” he asked.

Dean looked down.

“You need to do something about this,” Bobby said, low and dangerous, glaring up at Dean. “That kid is missing and if your son of a bitch brother did something to hurt one of these boys _again—_ ”

Dean reached out like a viper’s strike and grabbed Bobby by the shirt, pulling him close. Castiel ran forward and grabbed Dean’s arm, but he couldn’t move him an inch. The angel didn’t even glance towards him, didn’t act like he noticed at all, just drew Bobby up until their noses were barely an inch apart.

“I have lost my brother, too,” he said, his voice hardly more than a breath. “And you have _no idea_ what this whole catastrophe has cost Sam. I have no intention of letting Sam hurt that kid. You understand me? But if you want my help, if you want Samandriel safe, you’re gonna damn well show me some respect.”

Dean shoved Bobby away and Gabriel caught him as he stumbled back. Castiel carefully released Dean’s arm.

“What is Sam doing?” Castiel asked. “Trying to force me to make a deal?”

Dean shook his head, but it didn’t seem to be disagreement, not entirely—more weariness, more helplessness. “I wish I knew, Cas. Maybe. Shit. If I'm right and he was taken up for re-education, I have no idea what's going on in his head.”

Castiel had read enough dystopian novels to shiver at that word, _re-education_. “What does that mean? He’s only been gone for hours.”

“Time works differently there,” Dean said. “In Heaven. In the places of discipline, it works... _more_ differently.”

“Vague that up a little for us, huh?” Gabriel muttered, then quieted when Dean rounded on him.

“I am getting real tired of your goddamned mouth,” he said, taking one step towards Gabriel before Castiel put himself between them.

Dean looked down at him, then away, shaking his head. He raised his hands, and said, “Fuck. Sorry. I’m not gonna hurt your brother.”

“We don’t have time to fight right now,” Castiel said.

Dean lowered his hands and nodded.

“We need to find them before Heaven does, if they haven’t already. So I’m going to need all of us to put aside this childish bickering and focus. Okay? So quit antagonizing each other, and—and no trying to send me to Hell, at least not until we’ve found our brothers.”

Dean studied him for a moment, then nodded, reaching out his hand. “It’s a deal.”

He and Castiel both winced at the same time.

“Let me rephrase that. I agree to your terms.” Dean stuck his hand out again. Castiel shook it, then glanced over to his brother.

“Gabriel?”

“If he behaves, so will I.”

Castiel looked between the two of them, and then to Bobby, whose expression seemed to say _you see what I have to put up with?_ He sighed, then walked towards the library.

“Then let’s get started,” Castiel said. “We have no time and less information.”

Gabriel and Bobby obediently filed into the library, but Dean stopped Castiel with a hand on his shoulder. Castiel turned to look at him.

“We’re going to find them,” Dean said. “They’re going to be all right.”

“I know,” said Castiel.

“We’ll make sure they’re safe, Cas.”

“ _I,_ ” Castiel corrected firmly, “am going to make sure of it.”

Dean stared at him for a minute, then smiled, a sad, fond expression. “Yeah,” he said. “I bet you will.”


	11. The Wild Ones: Chapter Nine

  


_Pain_.

That was an important step in their strategy to find their brothers, evidently.

Dean had barely brushed his fingers against Castiel and Gabriel's chests, though his brows had been furrowed in concentration. They'd only been researching for a couple of hours when he beckoned them over, perfectly innocent, and then set their ribs alight.

Castiel cried out and Gabriel collapsed to his knees. Bobby shouted something in the distance—it sounded too far away to still be the library—but his ribs were on _fire_ and the _pain—_

—was suddenly gone.

“What,” Gabriel gasped, “in the _fucking fuck was that?_ ”

“Sigils,” Dean said, sounding—as Castiel was becoming accustomed to—unapologetic. “Cousins to the wards you put up, etched into your ribs. Means angels can’t find you now. And before you ask, yeah. Even me. And, bonus, they can’t be damaged if you get yourselves scratched up.”

He glanced over at Bobby. “Ready for yours?” he asked.

“Like hell,” Bobby growled. “If you think I’m gonna sit still while you torture me—”

“It’s like a tattoo,” Dean said. “Come on. A few seconds of pain for a lifetime of protection.”

“You couldn’t have done this _before_ your brother kidnapped ours?” Gabriel snapped, his hands still massaging his sides.

Castiel was too breathless to tell him to stop annoying Dean, but he managed to shoot his brother an ugly look.

“Well, I didn’t exactly _anticipate_ my brother getting kidnapped and brainwashed,” Dean said, his voice surprisingly even given Gabriel’s goading, “but what I _did_ anticipate was your totally predictable bitchiness about me giving you angel Kevlar.”

“A warning would have been nice.”

“We all want things we can’t have,” Dean replied.

“For example, a lead on our brothers,” Castiel said. Dean's jovial expression fell.

“Not like there's a lot of people I can talk to, since I'm apparently on Heaven's shit list now thanks to Sam's crap and what I did to Victor, but the few that will talk to me haven't seen anything,” Dean said wearily. “Or they won't admit to it. But I don't think they were lying.”

Castiel sighed, palming at his ribs. They'd been through this before—Dean had vanishingly few angels willing to talk to him. He couldn't locate Samandriel, either. That probably meant that Sam was using wards, which in turn meant he didn't want to be found.

That revelation had hit hard. If Sam didn't want to be found, then he had a plan for Samandriel. Castiel didn't want to think about what that plan might be.

Bobby and Gabriel's contacts were dry, with no sightings of either Sam or Samandriel. They'd tried a locator spell that Bobby had dug up, to disappointing results.

Castiel knew intellectually that this was not like other kidnappings. But he'd had enough friends and acquaintances on the street disappear that he could hear the echoes of the police officers' words about how each hour that passed without finding a missing person made it less likely that they would be found. Every tick of the clock weighed heavier than the last on his heart.

It seemed that there was little to do but wait and hope that Samandriel could get a message to Dean, that his prayers could break through the wards, that he'd even know that he should pray, but that seemed insufferable.

How could he sit, safe at Bobby's, while Samandriel was in danger?

Dean sighed heavily.

Castiel looked up at him just in time to see the rock come hurtling through the window behind him.

“Dean!” he cried, throwing his arm over his eyes and rotating his back toward the window. He heard Dean curse and duck out of the way.

“What the hell?” Bobby shouted, grabbing a rifle from behind his desk. Dean was already going to the window, his blade slipped into his hand. Castiel followed behind him.

Ruby stood in the yard, waving cheerfully, another equally large rock in her other hand.

“What the _hell_ ,” Dean growled.

“Got it in one!” Ruby said. “If you kids are done playing Hardy Boys in there and want some _actual_ information about your little Amber Alerts, come out and talk.”

Castiel froze, and he could feel Dean do the same in front of him.

Then Dean lunged forward and started to kick out the rest of the window, despite Bobby's protests. Castiel ran to the window, grabbing Dean's arm.

The angel glared at him, but didn't shake him off.

“She's a demon, Cas.”

Castiel swallowed, not sure how to tell Dean that he already knew, which was okay for now because Dean was still talking.

“We're up to our necks in crap as it is. We don't need demons, too. I'm gonna get rid of her before she can call for back-up.”

He kicked the jagged shards of glass out from the bottom of the frame. Bobby growled behind them, but didn't seem really eager to start a fight with Dean over a window.

“Dean, she says she has information,” Castiel said.

Dean's back was to him, but he made a visible effort to relax before he turned back around. His eyes were sharp and a little suspicious when they met Castiel's.

“And what could _possibly_ make you think that she's telling the truth?”

Castiel stammered something that was maybe the beginning of the word _well_ , but another crash to his right—about six inches from Dean's head—interrupted him.

“I'm on a schedule here, kids!” Ruby called. “So's Samandriel, actually.”

Dean snarled and kicked the last piece of glass out of his way. Castiel gripped his arm again, and this time Dean _did_ shake him off.

“You give me one fucking reason why I shouldn't gank this bitch right now,” Dean demanded, his hand white-knuckled around his blade.

“Dean,” Castiel began, but couldn't force the words out.

“Cas,” Dean said, mimicking Castiel's tone.

“Dean, I—” His voice petered out again.

“Castiel, you have ten seconds, and then I'm going out and killing her. Ten. Nine.”

Gabriel shouldered his way to the window, shotgun now in hand.

“Who is that?” he demanded.

“Her name is Ruby,” Castiel blurted out. “Her name is Ruby, and I think she's telling the truth.”

Dean and Gabriel both fixed him with sharp gazes, and he was pretty sure he could feel Bobby's eyes on him, too.

“How do _you_ know that?” Dean asked, his voice quiet and dangerous.

“She ran into me when I slipped away back in Pontiac,” Castiel said. “And she picked me up after I banished you and Sam. I don't know what she wants with me but she knew I was with you the whole time.”

He met Dean's eyes, and had time to flinch away before Dean grabbed the collar of his shirt. He only held it for a moment before he released it, keeping his hand spread like it was a mighty effort of will not to grab on and shake Castiel.

“You were taken by a demon,” Dean said slowly, “and you didn't think it was important to tell somebody?”

“She didn't hurt me,” Castiel said. “And I didn't know who to trust.”

Dean's face, Castiel had learned over the time he'd known him, was very expressive—sometimes so much so that it was difficult to keep up. Now, his expression flickered from hurt to pity to guilt, and then back to a cold, firm anger.

He took a long, slow breath, and released it, measured and even.

“We are gonna have a talk about withholding information,” he said, sounding purposefully reasonable. “Okay?”

“Tick tock!” Ruby called, bouncing another stone in her hand. “If you need another wake-up these rocks can just keep coming.”

“I think we should talk to her,” Castiel said. “No one else is talking to us, and she might really know something.”

Dean scowled, but Castiel could see the moment where he gave in. He walked away from the window abruptly and Castiel followed him, walking quickly to keep up with the angel's long strides as he stalked toward the doorway.

Ruby grinned and threw the remaining stone over her shoulder. She stuck her hands in her back pockets as Dean slammed the door open. He walked onto the front yard, Castiel, Gabriel, and Bobby following close behind.

“You can start talking, bitch,” Dean said, still striding toward her.

She pouted, but her mouth still quirked up at the side. “Come on, Dean, you're not happy to see me? I am _literally_ the only person on any plane of existence who both can and will help you find your brother. I think that merits a _hello_.”

“Hello,” Dean ground out, stopping in front of her and running his thumb over his blade. “You can start talking _now_ , bitch.”

“Sure. Hey, Cas. Long time no see.”

Castiel crossed his arms and frowned, which made Ruby laugh.

“Everybody's so _mad_ at me. Well, not the old guy, and not—oof,” Ruby said, glancing past Dean at Gabriel. “You look like roadkill.”

“She's a charmer,” Gabriel said. “You just attract the nicest people, Castiel.”

“Seriously, you look real strung out. You wanna do something about that later, you hit me up, kid.”

She grinned. Gabriel grew _very_ still. 

“But anyway. I have info. You need info.”

Dean strode up to her and grabbed her by the throat. His hand wrapped most of the way around her neck. He pulled up enough to force her to rise to her toes, but her expression remained startlingly defiant and unafraid. She even smiled as she looked up at the angel.

“You kill me, you never find your brother, or that boy he kidnapped,” she said. Her voice was hoarse but even.

“I'm not gonna repeat myself again,” Dean said. “Information. _Now_.”

Ruby grabbed his wrist and slammed her fist into the inside of his elbow. With a grunt, he dropped her. She staggered one step before righting herself, rubbing her neck.

“I'm not doing this out of the goodness of my heart, Feathers,” she said. “I am risking my neck here. Hell's going to be on my ass after this, so I want protection.”

“Yeah fucking right,” Gabriel scoffed, but Dean held up a hand to quiet him.

“What do you get out of it?” he asked.

“Whether my idiot bosses realize it or not, it's not in our best interests to have Heaven controlling all the pieces on the board,” Ruby said. “I want to fuck with John as much as you do right now. And what the fuck does it matter? You want Sam and Samandriel away from John. I want that, too. You can work with me or you can kiss them both good-bye.”

She smirked, holding her arms out.

“Column A and Column B, baby. What's it gonna be?”

It was a bit absurd, watching Ruby and Dean face off against one another. Dean had a good foot on her, and probably a hundred pounds, but Ruby stood her ground. She had all the cards, and she knew it.

“Dean,” Castiel said softly.

Dean held his hand out. Grinning widely, Ruby took it.

He pulled her in. Castiel could hear him whisper to her.

“If you double-cross me, I will make you _hurt_ before I kill you.”

“You do say the sweetest things,” Ruby said. “This time you don't have to worry about backstabbing.”

They separated. Ruby rolled her shoulders back.

“Amboy, Minnesota,” she said. “John's got them holed up in an abandoned farmhouse. I don't have anything more specific than that, but I figure once you get there you can figure out where there's a gaping hole in your senses from those wards, right?”

Dean nodded absently. “I'll find them from here. Cas, you come with me. Bobby, you don’t happen to be packing any holy oil, huh?”

Bobby didn’t answer for a moment.

Castiel looked over to him. His eyes were wide, and then he made a face that Castiel knew meant he was grudgingly impressed. “Yeah. I got some in the library.”

Dean did a very good recreation of Bobby’s exact pause- _huh_ - _hot damn_ process. “The hell you have holy oil for?”

“I’m guessing for using on sons of bitches like you, now,” Bobby said. “But I heard it wasn’t half bad for getting rid of demons if you’re in a pinch.”

“You’re right about that,” Dean said emphatically. “And I’m going to guess you have angel wards up in your panic room.”

“You bet your ass.”

“Great. Grab me that holy oil. Gabriel, get Ruby here inside and you keep an eye on her. If this lead's a bad one, I'll need her at least mostly intact when I get back.”

“Mostly,” Gabriel said, pulling out a knife and grabbing Ruby by the arm while Bobby went inside to get the oil. “Check.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Oh, my God. Spare me the dramatics. I _want_ to come with you.”

“Yeah, and you think that makes me real comfortable?” Gabriel asked, tugging her along. “Let's get inside, princess.”

“You pick cute humans, Dean,” Ruby called over her shoulder.

Bobby gave her an odd look as he crossed them on the porch, but just shook his head and walked back into the yard. He had in his hands a fragile-looking clay vessel with a bulbous base and thin, delicate neck. Its cracked, dusty colors brought to Castiel's mind an ancient desert.

“This is the only one I got,” Bobby said, “so don't break it and don't use more than you got to.”

“I won't,” Dean said, taking the vessel carefully and reverently as Bobby handed it to him. He held it like it was a bomb.

He turned to Castiel. “Ready?”

“Ready as I'm going to be,” Castiel said.

Dean nodded, shifted his grip on the oil, and pressed his fingers against Castiel's forehead.

Amboy, Minnesota was a small, rural town, a square gathering of homes and farms and businesses right off of the highway. The landed outside of a cafe on what seemed to be the main commercial drag—a doubled row of red brick stores and grey industrial buildings, with cozy homes visible on the side streets. It was quiet, peaceful. Castiel couldn't imagine that his brother was being held here.

“Ruby said a farmhouse,” he said, peering off toward the horizon. “That's probably not going to be in the center of town.”

“There are farmhouses all over.” Dean frowned fiercely at the white picket fence surrounding the cafe. “That doesn't give us shit to go on.”

“It gives us more than we had before,” Castiel said. Dean turned his frown on him. “Look, I don't like working with Ruby any more than you do—”

“Even though she approached you _twice_ and you didn't tell me.”

“—but you can't deny that she is the only one to give us anything like a lead.”

Dean's frown deepened into a scowl, but he just rolled his eyes and blew out a sigh. “We've got a lot of fucking farmland to cover if we're gonna find them. Let's get started.”

Dean took off down the street. Castiel hurried to keep up, wondering what kind of picture they made to the locals. Dean walked like a predator that had the scent of its prey, and Castiel was pretty sure he was scuttling behind him like he was just grateful that the prey wasn't him.

They didn't have to walk far in any direction to run out of town, especially at the pace that Dean set. The eastern side was bounded by farmland, but no particularly promising abandoned houses; Highway 169 lay to the west. The town stopped abruptly to the north and south, pretty residential streets dropping off precipitously into ruler-lined fields of crops. Finally, they had to admit that Sam and Samandriel were probably not in Amboy proper, and Dean decided that east was the best place to start.

Highway 30 stretched out, straight and exhausting, into the horizon. After thirty minutes of silent walking Castiel had had enough silence.

“This John guy,” he said.

Dean grunted.

“He's, um. Is he also your brother?”

Dean looked at him, then, and nodded tightly.

“Yeah. He's my brother.”

“Your older brother?”

Dean sighed, sounding irritated. Castiel almost withdrew the question before Dean started talking.

“They're all my brothers. The angels. Brothers and sisters. There's not really—we don't have older or younger siblings, not like you do. We were all created at about the same time, but we received our orders at different times. I've been in our garrison longer than Sammy has, John has been in his garrison _way_ longer than I have, Michael received his orders pretty much right after creation.”

Castiel knew he looked wide-eyed and awed, but he couldn't help it. “What did you do before you received your orders?”

“Worshiped,” Dean said simply.

“For how long?”

Dean laughed. “Cas, I don't even—you don't have words for it. Eons.”

It seemed unfathomable. Maybe it was what Sam had said about Dean’s body being new, but he seemed like nothing but a container for barely-restrained energy. His eyes darted from place to place as they walked, his fingers drummed out a rhythm against his thigh as he spoke. Quiet did not suit him.

“But John spent less time,” Castiel said.

Dean shrugged. “Yeah. I mean...yeah. He got his orders, he took his place among the Militant. And later, so did I, and so did Sammy.”

“Was it hard?” Castiel asked.

Dean quieted.

“To fight, to be a soldier, after all that time.”

Dean looked at him, then, piercing. It took an act of will for Castiel not to flinch away from that penetrating stare. But it softened after a moment, and Dean turned his eyes to the road ahead.

“We follow the Will of God,” Dean said. “We don't question.”

“I find that hard to believe, having met you. And Sam.”

Dean didn't look back, but the tugging of a grin at his lip was satisfying.

“Me and Sammy, we've always been...off,” Dean said.

It was said like a blessing, like a beloved nickname. _Off_.

“Off, like—”

“Wait.” Dean held up his hand and his eyes grew unfocused, but still sharply aware—it felt to Castiel like the angel was staring very intently at something that wasn’t visible to his human eyes. Maybe something he didn’t have the senses to fathom, like their wings. Whatever it was, it took the totality of Dean’s attention.

Castiel lasted slightly less than a minute before he said, his voice quiet in case Dean didn’t want to be interrupted, “Dean? What is it?”

Dean’s eyes snapped back into focus and he took a moment, catching the breath that he’d been holding. “Samandriel,” he said. “He’s praying.”

“What?” Castiel sprang up, his heart racing. “Can you find him? Can you bring us there? Is Sam with him? Is he hurt?”

Dean took him by the arm and he quieted.

“I need you to trust me,” he said. Castiel nodded. He closed his eyes in preparation for flight, and with a deep breath, they took off.


	12. The Wild Ones: Chapter Nine (point five)

  


  
They landed outside what looked like run-down farmhouse.

At least Ruby had told the truth.

There were no other houses to be seen, just miles of empty farmland and huge, cold daylit sky. They must have been several miles away from the town; Castiel couldn't see a hint of it. He was pretty sure that this was no longer _technically_ Amboy.

Castiel wrapped his arms around himself, colder than he'd been before. The house was hidden in a copse of trees surrounded by vast, empty fields, but standing on the road, there was little to stop the wind as it buffeted him. He followed Dean down a dirt road in a similar state of disuse to the house it led to.

The house they stood in front of was definitely abandoned. It was small, but looked like it might once have been cozy, homey. Castiel could imagine children playing out front, the scent of home-cooked dinners drifting from the front windows. It sat now, heavy and dark, like a corpse in the field.

“Can't say Sammy won't learn. It's warded good this time,” Dean was saying. Castiel shook himself to clear his mind of the thoughts that raced through it.

“So you can’t get in,” he said.

Dean nodded. “I have to get Sammy out here. I’m gonna make a circle of this holy oil and we need to lure him into it. Once he’s in it I’ll light it up and it’ll hold him—kind of like a Devil’s Trap.”

Castiel had no idea what a Devil’s Trap actually did. He nodded anyway, but the blankness in his expression must have been obvious because Dean sighed as they stopped in front of the door.

“He can’t cross the fire. Well, I mean, he _can_ , but it would kill him. So he won’t. So we get him out here, into the circle, and I’ll trap him while you go in and get your brother.”

Castiel nodded. Dean uncorked the clay jar, pouring a meticulous circle in the dirt right in front of the front door.

“Is he—”

Castiel broke off. Dean finished pouring the circle before he looked up.

“Is who what?” he asked. Castiel could hear the tension in his voice.

“Will Samandriel have been hurt?” Castiel asked softly.

Dean’s face fell.

“Will Sam have hurt him?” Castiel pressed, feeling more than hearing the tremble in his voice. “I just want to know so I’m—so I’m ready.”

“Cas, I wish I could tell you no.” Dean peered toward the house, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “But the truth is I don’t know. Sammy’s not himself in there. You need to assume that your brother is hurt and be gentle with him, okay? But get him out as fast as you possibly can, because I don’t trust that Sammy doesn’t have backup. Get in, get your brother, and get out. You understand?”

Castiel nodded. “I do.”

“Your sigil is set?”

Castiel shifted his jacket to show the banishing sigil. “It is.”

“Then get ready.”

Dean squared himself in front of the door, just beyond the barely-visible circle of holy oil, and bellowed, “ _Sam!_ ”

His voice rang through the street, and everything seemed to tremble, or maybe that was just Castiel. But a deeper hush fell seemed to fall, the soft sounds of the animals, even the insects, quieting. Castiel couldn't blame them. There was something terrible about the way Dean said his brother’s name. Something bottomlessly sad, something fearful, something very, very angry, swirling together in a miasma thick enough to choke. Even knowing why, Castiel couldn’t help but feel breathlessly, desperately glad that it was not his own name being called in that voice.

Nothing happened for a very long moment, and Castiel worried his lip between his teeth. He stepped up to Dean and started to try to get around the circle, towards the door, but Dean blocked him with an arm across his chest.

“Not until he’s in the circle.” Dean’s voice was barely a whisper. “Stay behind me until he’s contained.”

Castiel took a breath.

“Do not argue with me. Not now. You can bitch at me later but not now.”

Castiel let his mouth close and took two steps back. He could see some of the tension leave Dean’s shoulders.

The door opened, then, creaking painfully, and Sam looked out.

It was strange. He looked just the same, down to the same clothes, but there was something strikingly, glaringly different about him. The way he held himself, the way he looked at Dean, the way he _didn’t_ look at Castiel.

“I’m surprised you found me,” Sam said, audible even so far off the street, his voice devoid of emotion.

“After all this time, Sammy? You shouldn’t be.” Dean took a step sideways to block Castiel’s view. “I know what happened, man. I know they brought you back to Heaven. You come to your senses?”

Castiel stiffened.

He peered out around Dean and saw Sam walking from the door, a pucker between his brows the only sign of any feeling on his face.

“My time in Heaven was very instructional,” he said, his words slow, careful, as though he didn't want to get it wrong. “I understand now what you were trying to tell me. Were you sent here? I see that you brought the Righteous Man.”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean said. “Yeah, I got him.”

He reached back and his fingers wrapped like a manacle around Castiel's wrist. Wrapped tight enough that Castiel knew he could feel the way his pulse began to race beneath those iron fingers. He pulled back, just a little, just experimentally, but—no. Of course.

Sam smiled, something like real relief spreading through him, melting some of the mechanical tension that had wrung his frame. He still stood too stiffly, too _primly,_ not the careful mastery of his body he'd demonstrated earlier, but a discomfort. Like when they'd taken him up, they'd refitted it somehow, tightened it.

Castiel tried pulling again. No give.

“Dean,” he whispered, his heart in his throat.

Dean didn't glance back, just kept smiling at Sam. “You got the little one, right?”

A flicker of a frown passed over Sam's face, and he glanced—almost invisibly, but Castiel was sure he saw it—back into the house. “I have Samandriel,” he said. “He's inside.”

He peered at Castiel.

“Heaven was fairly sure that _he_ wouldn't say yes. But Samandriel is an acceptable vessel for Michael, apparently. Fortunately.”

“Trust the Big Man to throw in some redundancies, just in case,” Dean said, pulling Castiel forward a step. He stumbled and had to fight for his balance so he wasn't forced to catch himself on Dean's jacket, or by leaning against Dean.

He didn't want to touch the angel.

God, how he could he have been so wrong?

“I trusted you,” he whispered, gritting his teeth against the discomfort in his wrist and the aching pain of the betrayal.

“Not now, Cas, the grown-ups are talking,” Dean said. He threw a cocky grin, but there was enough warning in his voice that Castiel didn't do anything in return but glare.

“He's not here willingly?” Sam asked, sounding disappointed.

“Not yet,” Dean said. The hand around Castiel's wrist became an arm slung around his shoulders. “But soon enough, I think.”

Castiel struggled under that arm, tried to duck out from underneath, but Dean's grip was unshakeable. The angel laughed.

Castiel's blood ran cold, and he shuddered.

The thought occurred to him to banish them, and he raised his hand to slap his side only to have Dean wrap his free hand around it, shaking his head.

“Nope, can't have that,” Dean said, chiding.

Sam watched the entire display impassively, his eyes narrowed.

“Two down, one to go, right, Sammy?” Dean said. Castiel glared up at him. Dean squeezed his shoulders, and he struggled.

Dean reacted more strongly than Castiel expected, jerking a little bit in the direction of Castiel's struggles. He grunted, as if restraining Castiel was difficult.

“Geez, Cas. C'mon. Sammy, a hand here? I don't want to hurt him getting him inside, but if we each grab an arm we can probably get him in real gentle.”

Sam studied Castiel through narrowed eyes, but nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Sam’s feet crossed the faint line of the circle—one, then the other.

Dean pulled a Zippo lighter out of his pocket, shoved Castiel aside, and lit it. “Sorry about this, little brother,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful.

He threw the lighter onto the ground.

The circle around Sam flared up so suddenly that Castiel stumbled back and threw his hands over his face.

When he recovered he saw Sam standing in the middle of the circle, staring around himself, flickers of emotions—betrayal, surprise, fear—passing so quickly as to barely be nameable.

“ _Dean_ ,” he said, choked.

“Sammy, you're not thinking straight right now.”

“I am doing what _you said_ I should do,” Sam spat, sticking his finger towards Dean, then drawing it back quickly when it got too close to the fire. “Dean. I am doing what you said. And this is what I get? _Holy oil_?”

The flames cracked and hissed and reflected in both Sam's eyes and Dean's as they faced each other.

“Get your brother,” Dean ordered Castiel, tearing his gaze from Sam. “In and out, like I said. Fast. You get me?”

“Yeah,” Castiel said, his head still spinning from Dean's about-face.

He ran past the flames, past Dean turning back to his brother and past Sam’s narrow-eyed stare, into the house where his brother was being held.

It wasn’t hard to find him, but it was hard to get to him. The floorboards were warped and scorched, protesting beneath his careful footsteps. The pale walls were darkened with charred shadows that suggested tongues of flame. He moved slowly, cautiously, but continuously, Dean’s warning to be quick echoing in his mind.

The hardwood beneath him threatened to give under any negligent footfall, so he braced himself against the walls as he navigated his way into the back room, where he heard soft noises that sounded like maybe jagged breathing, maybe quiet weeping. He took a breath as he got close.

“It's disappointing that Sam hasn't done as he was told.”

Castiel froze. He knew that voice.

“My hand has been forced here. My young brothers have made this more difficult than it needed to be through their interference,” John said. “You should understand that this was not the plan.”

Castiel could hear Samandriel's breathing hitch.

“If you tell me what you want me to do, I'll do it,” Samandriel said, his voice hoarse and breaking. There was a thickness in his words that Castiel knew meant he was holding back tears.

Castiel crept closer to the room. He kept his back against the wall of the hallway, testing the floor carefully before committing his weight to any board, feeling his muscles engage and relax with the familiarity of sneaking through a place where he wasn't welcome. He hoped desperately that the sigils Dean had carved into his ribs would keep him hidden from John's angelic senses, and that his hard-earned skills in stealth would shield him from the human senses of the vessel.

He pressed close against the edge of the door frame, sitting so that he was flush against the wall. If he craned his head around, he could just barely see inside the room, but he didn't dare get any closer.

Samandriel was tied to a chair with ropes around his chest and binding his wrists and legs. Blood was running down his lip and brow, but it didn't look serious—shallow cuts, looking worse than they were because head wounds always bled a lot.

“That's the irony, Samandriel,” John said. “I might even believe you. You might be willing. But it isn't your willingness I need. It's your brothers'.”

Samandriel straightened, the fear across his features morphing into anger. Castiel could see him straining more against his bonds, the skin around the ropes growing pale with the pressure.

“Leave my brothers alone.”

John huffed a single, dry laugh. “Don't worry. I have no plans on interfering with your brothers. You're what I need, and I already have you.”

Castiel watched as his brother stilled. Samandriel sank slowly back into the chair, the anger fading and the fear returning.

“What—what are you going to do to me?”

John seemed not to have anticipated that question. He paused, then walked up to Samandriel and put a hand on his head. The gesture was almost affectionate, almost a benediction. Castiel was one heartbeat away from running into the room, but John was saying _so much_. Giving away so much information. He could hold on, just another moment. John wasn't hurting Samandriel yet.

John peered down at Samandriel's face, which was upturned and wide-eyed.

“Your soul is pure, despite the darkness of your last year,” the angel said. “You will find Heaven.”

Samandriel shuddered beneath John's hand.

“My brother has been rebellious, and he has caused your brother to be rebellious, as well. I'm going to have to fix it, now. I'm going to have to set your brother on the right path once more, and mine, too. If no one else is going to set this straight, then I will. When Sam comes back in, he will prove his loyalty to me and to Heaven by killing you.”

Samandriel began whispering _no, no, no,_ but John didn't appear to notice.

“He won't fail me this time. Perhaps it will comfort you to know that for whatever reason, he's reluctant to kill you. But he understands, now. He knows that this is according to the Plan, and that the Plan is ineffable in its justness, whatever means it might take.”

“You want Castiel to fight for you,” Samandriel said. “He won't do it if you kill me.”

John smiled, condescending, and the pieces slipped together in Castiel's mind.

No. John did not need Castiel to fight for him. This wasn't about using him as a vessel—not yet.

This was about Hell.

This was about Castiel making a deal, and spilling blood in Hell. John was going to make Sam kill Samandriel, to force Castiel to make a deal.

John's hand dropped from Samandriel's head to his jaw, and he tipped his head up further.

“Sam won't make it hurt. You won't feel a thing.”

Castiel stood and strode into the room. He saw John's eyes widen and then narrow, and heard Samandriel gasp.

“You're right,” Castiel said, staring at John. “He won't.”

John managed half a step forward before Castiel slammed his hand against the sigil on his shirt, and the angel was gone in a burst of white light.

Samandriel didn’t move while Castiel untied him, but he whispered, his voice hoarse and panicked, “No, Castiel, you have to—Sam, he—”

“Dean has Sam outside,” Castiel said, his fingers slipping off of the cords. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and got back to work. “He’s got it, Samandriel. We’re taking you home.”

The first knot came undone, freeing Samandriel’s upper body. He leaned forward, breathing heavily. Castiel set to work on his wrists next.

“Why’d he have to tie you up like this?” Castiel asked, picking the cord apart with his fingernail.

“John tied me up,” Samandriel replied in a small voice. “I guess so I'd...I guess so I'd hold still when he tried to make Sam kill me.”

Castiel slipped the cords off of Samandriel’s wrists. His brother began rubbing circulation back into his hands.

“Did he hurt you?” Castiel asked as the last knot loosened. He stood quickly, ducking in front of Samandriel to catch his brother as he slumped off of the chair. He bracketed Samandriel's face in his hands, staring into his face as if to divine from it what John had done.

“Just hit me a couple of times.” Samandriel raised a shaky hand to the cut on his forehead. “I talked back.”

Castiel offered a weak smile, and slung Samandriel’s arm over his shoulder, supporting the majority of his weight as they walked slowly out of the house.

The fire was still raging, but neither Dean nor Sam was saying anything when they made it outside. The angels were just staring at each other, tight-lipped and narrow-eyed, and those eyes turned to Castiel and Samandriel as soon as they were through the doorway.

“Is he okay?” Dean asked, then looked at Samandriel. “Are you okay?”

Samandriel nodded, staring up at Dean with wide eyes.

“You took your sweet fucking time,” Dean said, glaring at Castiel.

“John was there,” Castiel replied, annoyed. “Which you didn't tell me.”

“I told you he might have backup—did you banish him?” Dean's words were clipped and irritated, but his sudden pallor told Castiel how alarmed he was.

“Yeah. I banished him.”

“Good.” He reached for them, but Castiel took a step back, bringing Samandriel with them.

“What about Sam?” Castiel asked.

Dean glanced over at his brother, who was staring at Samandriel with a look that Castiel didn’t care to interpret.

“He’s gonna stay put until somebody puts out that fire,” Dean replied. “I’m going to bring the two of you back to Bobby’s, and then come back for him.”

“And then?” Samandriel asked, almost inaudible to Castiel, though Dean of course wouldn’t have trouble hearing him.

Dean took a deep breath. “And then I bring him back, and we put that panic room of Bobby’s to good use until I figure out what the hell they did to my brother.”

There wasn’t much more Castiel could ask, so he nodded, and braced himself for flight.

Dean was gone again before he opened his eyes, squinting in the sunlight as Gabriel threw open the door and ran towards him. Bobby was close on his heels.

Gabriel got to them first and fell to his knees, taking Samandriel’s free arm and putting it around his shoulders. “Let’s get inside,” he said. “Inside the wards, come on.”

Bobby helped Castiel up and watched him carefully as he rose. “You all right, son?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” Castiel said. “We both are. Dean’s going to be back soon. He’s bringing Sam to the panic room.”

“It’s all set up,” Bobby said. “Door’s open and ready. Let’s take care of the two of you.”

Samandriel grew heavier and heavier with each step as he allowed his brothers to carry his weight, slowly succumbing to the exhaustion of relief after trauma. He was barely conscious by the time they got him to the couch. They laid him down gently, and Castiel pulled a quilt over him.

“He’s fine, Castiel.” Gabriel was at his shoulder, putting a hand on his arm. “You got him.”

“Yeah.” Castiel sank down into a chair by the couch, choosing to sit rather than fall as his legs began to shake. “Yeah.”

Gabriel walked off to get him some water, leaving Castiel and Samandriel alone in the library. As he tried to catch his breath, he heard it: a heavy door swinging shut downstairs, sealing what must be the panic room.

Castiel looked at his younger brother, sleeping peacefully on the couch, and tried to let the deep, even cadence of Samandriel’s breath clear his mind of thoughts of angels.


	13. The Wild Ones: Chapter Ten

  


When he woke up, Castiel stumbled into the kitchen to make some coffee.

Ruby was sitting on the floor next to the oven, her head thrown back, staring up at the ceiling. Castiel stopped, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do next. She fixed her eyes on him.

“ _Finally_ ,” she said. “Is there an inch of this goddamn house that isn't covered in Devil's Traps? Your stupid brother thought it was just _hilarious_ to pretend to let me out of one, only to let me get like _four steps_ before running into another one.”

Castiel bit back a grin. Not very well, though, because Ruby glowered.

“Yeah, it's _super_ funny. I help you out —my info was good, wasn't it? And _this_ is the thanks I get. Break the fucking sigil, you little shit."

“I don't know how,” Castiel said honestly, plugging in the coffee maker and spooning thoughtless heaping spoonfuls of well-expired coffee grounds into the filter. “I'm new to all this.”

“Oh, for the love—you get on the counter and scratch out any line of that design!” Ruby shouted, jabbing a finger up at the sigil on the ceiling. “Any line! This is not brain surgery!”

“I'm sure Gabriel had a good reason for keeping you locked up,” Castiel said, hitting the button to start the coffee. “I don't want to do something stupid.”

“You don't?” Ruby snapped. “You could have fooled me.”

Castiel ignored her as he waited for the coffee to brew, poured himself a cup, and stared up at the ceiling.

“Castiel,” she said through gritted teeth.

Castiel grabbed a knife out of the drawer, relished Ruby's minute flinch. He climbed up onto the counter. With the edge of the knife, he scraped a line out of the Devil's Trap.

Ruby stepped out from beneath it, looking surprised. She helped him down.

“That was surprisingly un-shitty of you,” she said.

“Your information was good,” he replied. “If it wasn't for you we wouldn't have found my brother. I owe you.”

Her pale eyes locked on his, and she watched him keenly, as though she were trying to find the trick in what he was saying.

But he _was_ grateful.

“Okay,” she said dubiously.

Castiel held the mug of coffee out to her. “You want some?”

She took it and sipped it, sighing. “Your brother and the old man are cruel and unusual. I haven't had a thing to eat or drink since I got here.”

“Demons don't need to,” Castiel said, though it was a guess. Ruby's rolled eyes confirmed it, though, and he grinned.

“Beside the point,” she said. “You're the only one with an ounce of humanity in this whole house. And I know that it's not a real stiff competition from some of us, but...thanks for the coffee.”

She sipped it again, but kept her eyes on his face while she did. There was something vulnerable about that, and he shrugged, uncomfortable.

“You're welcome,” he said, and hurriedly fixed his own coffee and fled back into the library.

When Ruby took about four more steps and wound up under another Devil's Trap, he pled ignorance.

Samandriel woke up after only a few hours, his eyes blinking open slowly. Castiel was right there, waiting for him.

“Hey,” he said, watching Samandriel smile sleepily. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, I promise.” Samandriel sat up and stretched his arms over his head, then ran his hands through his mussed hair.

He looked pale, haggard, dark circles underlining his eyes. He put on a brave smile when he saw Castiel studying him, but it was a thin veneer over the exhaustion and fear that still fought for recognition on his face. When he moved it was slowly, painfully.

Intellectually, Castiel knew that he was stiff and sore rather than injured, but he couldn’t help but spring up and help his brother, lowering his legs carefully off of the couch, propping him up with pillows. He sat next to him once he was situated, and put a hand on his younger brother’s arm.

“You don’t have to be,” he said. “Fine. It’s okay if you’re not.”

Samandriel didn’t make eye contact. “I am.”

“You were kidnapped.”

“I know. Sam didn’t hurt me. Not really.”

Castiel bit his lip. “But John did.”

Samandriel rolled his eyes. “Come on. He slapped me. I’ve gotten worse sparring with Gabriel.”

“But he meant to hurt you, Samandriel. That’s the difference.”

“Do you _want_ me not to be okay?" Samandriel asked abruptly, and Castiel quieted. "Because it sounds like you want me not to be okay. I'm _okay._ "

Castiel nodded, taking his hand off of Samandriel’s arm and leaning back against the couch to give his brother some space.

Samandriel’s face fell. “I’m—I’m sorry. I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Castiel said. “I get it. Whenever you’re ready to talk about it, I’m here. I’ll let Gabriel and Bobby know to leave you alone about it.”

“I _am_ okay."

Castiel knew that tone. It was the tone he himself always used when he was trying to convince himself that things were all right, that he would recover from whatever had just happened, that tomorrow would be better anyway, so he just needed to make it through tonight.

Brady—demon or not—had known better than to press him when he spoke like that. So he knew better than to press Samandriel.

So he just said, “I know,” and wrapped his arm around his brother’s shoulders.

Gabriel found them like that a little while later. He came in from the kitchen balancing three steaming mugs in his hands. Castiel rose to help him, taking the two that Gabriel loosened his grip on.

“One’s coffee and one’s hot chocolate. Fight amongst yourselves,” Gabriel said, sipping his own mug and sitting on the couch on the other side of Samandriel.

Hot chocolate in his, no doubt. There wasn’t enough sugar in the world to convince Gabriel to drink coffee if hot chocolate was available.

“Is Ruby sulking?” Castiel asked.

“I told her to keep it down because Samandriel's not feeling well,” Gabriel said with a grin. “But yeah. Epic sulking. So was I telling the truth? Are you feeling okay, baby bro?” He nudged Samandriel with his elbow.

“Yeah,” Samandriel said, smiling briefly at Castiel when he handed over the hot chocolate. “A little stiff. But fine.”

Gabriel, blessedly, knew better than Castiel in this instance and let it go. “Bobby’s downstairs with Dean, getting a few more lessons on wards.”

Samandriel grinned. “Bet that’s a fun conversation.”

“Well, the old man’s not thrilled about being told how to ward his own house, and from a guy who looks like he’s thirty no less, but he’s listening.”

“And complaining?” Samandriel guessed.

“Naturally.”

Samandriel’s grin faltered. He took a long drink from his mug before he said, “Sam is downstairs?”

“Locked up as tight as Dean and Bobby know how,” Gabriel said. “Which, given that Dean is an angel, I’m gonna guess is pretty damn tight.”

Samandriel nodded, hiding his face behind his mug as he took a very slow drink. Castiel didn’t stare, didn’t even look at his brother’s face, but he saw the way that his hands shook around the mug.

“Sam was taken back to Heaven,” Castiel said.

Samandriel startled and looked up. Gabriel leaned around, a confused tension on his face, but Castiel pressed on.

“Dean said he was taken for re-education. I think they brainwashed him, Samandriel. Or something like that. It wasn’t the Sam you met before who did this to you. They hurt him up there. That’s what Dean said. And now, Dean’s going to try to fix it.”

Gabriel scowled. “He doesn’t need to hear about this right now, Castiel. He’s got enough—”

“No.” Samandriel’s voice was firm, if quiet, and Gabriel cut himself off. “No. That’s—it’s good. I thought—”

He took a moment, warming his hands around the mug without speaking. Castiel could see the tension in his features, the way his mouth worked as he prepared words he didn’t necessarily want to say out loud.

“He was really nice to me, you know? Before.”

“I know,” Castiel said.

“And when he took me, I—I thought for a minute that something was wrong _here,_ like he was doing it to get me out of danger. But as soon as I got a chance to really look at him, I knew that yeah, something was wrong, but with _him._ But he —John had wanted him to kill me earlier. He didn't. He hesitated, at least."

“I know,” Castiel said.

Somewhere down that hall two angels sat in a room that Bobby had built and warded, both having risked more for Castiel and his brothers than he could understand. Sam had been broken in a more profound way than he had words for, and _even so_ , he had gone against orders— _again—_ and was at least reluctant to harm Samandriel. Stalled at least long enough for Dean to show up.

Waited, despite knowing what the consequences would be, because he had already experienced them.

“You heard John say that he wanted Sam to kill you?”

All three Novaks startled at Dean’s voice, and Gabriel cursed softly as his hot chocolate splashed onto his wrist. Castiel stared, wide-eyed, into the kitchen, where Dean was leaning against the door frame.

“How long have you been there?” Castiel asked.

Dean strode forward, ignoring him. “Samandriel. John said that? That he would take matters into his own hands?”

Samandriel inhaled shakily, but nodded. “Yes. He said that to me.”

“I heard it, too,” Castiel said quietly.

Dean ran his hands over his face, visibly pulling himself back together.

He crouched down and passed his thumb over Samandriel’s brow and lip, healing the cuts. Samandriel tracked the motion, following Dean’s thumb, which now bore just a trace of dried blood on it.

Samandriel reached out and took Dean by the wrist. Dean stared at him, and Castiel could see a glazed quality in his eyes, an uncertainty and a strange helplessness that seemed so out of place in an ancient, powerful being staring at a fourteen-year-old boy.

“Sam didn’t hurt me, even when he was supposed to,” Samandriel said. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“He kidnapped you,” said Dean, his voice rough.

“He was supposed to kill me, but he didn't. It’s important you know that. Okay? He _didn't do it._ "

Dean was still for a while, his wrist still in Samandriel’s grip. Samandriel released him eventually, and Dean sat—all but collapsed back onto the floor, then hunched over, one hand over his mouth and the other tangled in his short hair.

“He was right,” Dean said.

Samandriel watched him, and Castiel put a hand on his younger brother’s knee.

“ _Shit_. He was right the whole time. About everything. About John, about our orders. They’ve been fucking _gaming_ me.”

Castiel shifted anxiously, because there was a rising anger in Dean’s voice, and while he knew it wasn’t directed at him, his proximity was enough to make him nervous. He’d seen Dean angry—he didn’t want to be close when it happened.

Dean stood. “I’m going get my brother back, and then I am gonna make _sure_ John knows exactly what a mistake he made by messing with you. _You—_ ” he pointed to Castiel, “—are my charge, and they gave you to me to watch over. And that means your brothers, too, whether my bosses like it or not.”

He started to walk away, but stopped and crouched by Samandriel again.

“You are one strong fuckin’ kid. Don’t let anybody tell you different. And when I snap Sammy out of it, he’s gonna be up here with one hell of an apology.”

Samandriel cracked a smile—the closest to a real one Castiel had seen since his return, and he said, “Okay.”

“Okay.” Dean released him and strode quickly back towards the panic room.

Castiel hesitated, then hurried after the angel.

He caught up with him about halfway to the panic room. “Dean, wait.”

Dean turned around, impatience tightening the muscles of his jaw. When he saw Castiel, he kept walking. “What?”

Castiel hesitated, but pressed on, following behind him. “What are you going to do to him?”

“Sammy?” Dean turned his head briefly and Castiel saw his frown. “I’m gonna talk some damn sense into him. He’s been re-educated, not lobotomized. He’s still in there somewhere, just under a crapload of stupid ideas.”

“Are you going to ask him about John?”

Dean scoffed, but actually stopped. Castiel folded his arms over his stomach as he waited for an answer.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “But I don’t know if he’ll give me a straight answer like this. If they went deep enough, I don’t even know if he can _think_ about something like John giving unauthorized orders. It just won't make sense to him."

“Even though he knew it all along.”

“Especially because he did.”

Dean turned to peer down the staircase that lay just ahead of them, leading down into Bobby’s basement and, apparently, his panic room. He grimaced.

“They would’ve had to get in there, Cas. Sammy’s nothing if not stubborn, and they did a number on him.”

“He’s still there enough to resist John’s orders,” Castiel said quietly, staring down the staircase, too. He felt Dean’s gaze turn to him but he didn’t look up. “I mean, that’s—that’s the thing, right? The thing that they tried to fix. Was Sam not listening to orders. But they didn’t fix it, because he didn’t kill Samandriel when he was told to.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Guess you’re right.”

They stood at the top of the staircase, staring down together. Dean took a step onto the topmost stair, and Castiel grabbed his arm. He stopped and and met Castiel’s eyes, which were more or less even with his now.

“Are they going to keep coming for my brothers?” Castiel asked.

Dean hesitated.

“I just need to know,” said Castiel.

Dean dropped his eyes and nodded, then looked back up.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you’re not alone, okay? Me and Sammy. We got your back.”

“Even if it means no Heaven on Earth?” Castiel’s smile came out crooked, he was pretty sure, but he made the effort.

Dean didn’t smile in return. “John is messing with stuff, Cas, but I don’t know that it means there won’t be an Apocalypse. I don’t want dickheads messing with my brother or my friends. But I can’t promise you that you’re in the clear when it comes to the end times. Okay?”

Castiel felt his breath catch again, and he just stared instead of answering. Dean sighed and stepped out of his grip.

“I’ve got to go see what I can do for Sammy. I’ll be back up to check on you later.”

With that, he disappeared down the staircase.

Castiel listened to the heavy, grating sound of the door swinging open. Heard Dean say, “Heya, Sammy,” and heard the hoarse, raspy reply of “ _Dean._ ” Then the door shut with a metallic _thud_ , and he was alone.


	14. The Wild Ones: Chapter Ten (point five)

  


  
Time passed—he didn’t know how much—and a hand on his shoulder made him jump and cry out. He turned to see Bobby holding his hands up.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, gasping in breath. “I didn’t—I couldn’t—”

“You been standing here a while, son,” Bobby said, concern lacing his voice. “Let’s get some food into you, huh? Your brothers are already eating.”

Castiel let Bobby lead him into the kitchen, where, sure enough, Samandriel and Gabriel were eating sandwiches. There was one on a plate for him.

He sat down, staring at it for a while. Ruby was sitting on the floor again, this time to the right of the sink. She had a sandwich, too.

“Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb still down there?” she asked, smirking.

“Shut up, Ruby,” Gabriel said.

“Sam and Dean are still downstairs,” Castiel said quietly as he picked up his sandwich.

“Hey, Cas, you wanna come break this Devil's Trap for me? I figure we're pals now.”

“You break that Devil's Trap, boy, you'll be paintin' a new one one every tile,” Bobby growled, then stood up and walked to the library, not sparing a glance for Ruby as she fixed him with a venomous glare.

Castiel began eating in silence, watching his brothers out of the corners of his eyes as they ate. Samandriel looked slightly better, although still pale, still with heavy purple circles under eyes that seemed to look too far away. He was wearing a shirt that had been Castiel’s—a faded old blue overshirt, one that he remembered as being very soft. Samandriel was only two years younger than Castiel had been when he’d run, he realized. And while he had a smaller build, he was growing quickly. He would be just about filling out the clothes Castiel had left behind.

Of course, that impressed on Castiel his brother's imminent adulthood far less than braving a kidnapping and comforting a grieving angel had. Samandriel was not the child he’d left behind to Gabriel’s care.

And Gabriel—

Gabriel was shaking.

Castiel frowned, turning more fully to Gabriel, who noticed the movement and caught his eye. He scowled back, taking a large, contrary bite of sandwich.

“Gabriel, are you—”

“You’re gonna do this? In front of _her?_ " Gabriel snapped, and Castiel recoiled. He didn't say anything else, but Gabriel kept going.

“You can ignore me, I'm just a fly on the wall,” Ruby said gleefully, putting her sandwich down and propping her chin on her hands.

Gabriel did exactly that.

“I’m _fine_. Our little brother got kidnapped by one of your pet angels but I'm _fine_. I would cut off a _limb_ for a hit right now but I'm _fine,_ because I _have_ to be."

Castiel tried to exchange a look with Samandriel, but he was concentrating very hard on his sandwich and very deliberately not looking up.

He shook his head and faced Gabriel. “I was just going to ask if you were okay. You don’t have to—”

“And you think I don’t know what _okay_ means, Cas? You think I don't know what you're asking? You think I don't get the subtle little jabs that mean that, from your big old petty-theft-and-fraud high horse, you're judging me for using?"

“I am not—”

“I’m as fine as I’m gonna be, Cas.” Gabriel put the remaining half of his sandwich down on his plate and ran his hands through his hair. “So don’t ask _me_. Maybe you should ask your little brother. You know. The one who got kidnapped."

“He already asked me earlier,” Samandriel said, but when Castiel looked over to him, concerned that he was under attack from both sides, he smiled thinly.

“Oh, _God_." Ruby groaned from her place by the sink, slamming her head back into the cabinets. "If this is going to be a touchy-feely sibling bitchfest, somebody exorcise me."

“Everybody’s fine, Cas. Everybody’s super.” Gabriel stood up abruptly, his chair protesting against the floor.

The sound was echoed downstairs, and everyone stilled.

Bobby came into the kitchen. “You boys all right?” he asked mildly.

“I'm requesting exorcism,” Ruby said.

“Also note that you ain't a boy,” Bobby replied. “You _boys_ all right?”

“Sexism,” Ruby muttered, picking her sandwich back up and taking a big bite.

“Was that the panic room?” Castiel asked.

Samandriel nodded, looking paler than he had a moment ago.

Gabriel was tense, like a rabbit about to bolt.

A moment later Dean came up the stairs and into the kitchen, with Sam in tow. Sam’s was arm slung around his shoulders, and the younger angel walked like it took every ounce of energy he had in him. Still, there was a brightness, an awareness, and a pain in Sam’s eyes that made Castiel understand that Dean had brought him back.

Wordlessly, Dean brought him to the table, and eased him down onto a chair at the opposite end of the table from Castiel and his brothers. Sam slumped for a moment—he looked worse than Samandriel, skin like parchment and red eyes and tousled hair—but pulled his head up to look at them. He stared at each in turn, and then turned to Ruby.

“Thank you,” he said.

She looked surprised, then suspicious, then calculating.

“You didn't have to tell Dean where I was. Where I'd brought Samandriel. Thank you for stopping me.”

“Don't give yourself too much credit,” Ruby said. “It was John I was really trying to screw over.”

“Still.”

Ruby looked at him funny, as though trying to figure out what the catch was. Sam coughed, and turned back to the Novaks.

“Samandriel,” he said hoarsely. “I am so, so—”

“That’s enough.” Gabriel slammed his chair under the table and Sam jolted. Dean put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and glared at Gabriel.

“My brother is trying to—” Dean said, but Gabriel laughed, cutting him off.

“Your brother kidnapped my brother and nearly killed him. I’m not interested in hearing an _I'm so sorry_. I don't give a shit how many _so_ 's he puts in front of it. There are things that _I'm sorry_ can't fix, and this is one of them. So if you assholes want to do this kiss-and-make-up shit, fine. I'm leaving."

He shoved past Bobby on the way out. Castiel heard the sound of the front door slamming behind him.

“Oooh,” Ruby whispered.

“Shut up, Ruby,” Dean said, but he sounded too distracted to really put any force behind the command. Ruby noticed and made a face.

“He shouldn’t be past the wards,” Sam muttered, staring out at the door.

“I’ll go get him,” Castiel said, sighing as he stood. He smiled at Sam, who looked up at him through weary eyes. “It’s good to see you back, Sam.”

Sam gave what Castiel knew must be his best attempt at a smile, though it was weak and watery. “Thank you. I—you didn’t have to say that.”

“I didn't think that lying to an angel was a smart plan,” Castiel replied, and Sam’s smile brightened, became almost worthy of the name.

It faded when he turned to Samandriel, though. “Your brother was right. I can’t— _I’m sorry_ isn’t enough. What I did to you—”

“You didn’t do anything,” Samandriel said as Castiel made his way out of the kitchen. “I’m okay. Everybody keeps saying stuff but you didn’t do anything to me, Sam. It was John.”

Castiel left the room, shutting the door quietly after himself. He took a bracing breath of the cold winter air.

Gabriel was leaning against the porch railing, trying and failing to light a cigarette with shaking hands. If he noticed Castiel's approach, he gave no indication, but kept cursing softly and snapping the lighter.

Castiel hovered by the door at first, uncertain, but finally walked over and took the lighter out of Gabriel's hands. He protested, but quieted when Castiel quickly disassembled the lighter, wiped the wheel thoroughly on his overshirt, reassembled it and handed it back to him.

Gabriel just held it for a moment, then struck it, and stared at the resultant flame.

He lit his cigarette.

“You're welcome,” Castiel said.

Gabriel snorted around the cigarette that dangled from his lips, pocketing the lighter. “What, no judgy words of wisdom? How I might as well just coat my lungs in cancer cells and have done with it?”

“Everyone has their coping mechanisms,” Castiel said dully, joining Gabriel to lean against the rail. “Do you have another?”

“Coping mechanism?”

“Cigarette.”

Gabriel smiled ruefully and pulled the pack out of his pocket, taking another out and handing it to Castiel. “I guess that's payment for fixing my lighter.” He handed him the lighter, too.

Castiel took it and spun it, peering at his brother. “Are you disappointed?” he asked.

“I mean, I guess I hoped that my bad habits wouldn't rub off on you too much. But I should've put those hopes to rest when I heard you tried to steal Sam's wallet.”

Castiel frowned, lit the cigarette, and took a long drag, handing the lighter back. It had been a long time, and he felt his throat close up against the thick smoke. He couldn't stop the choking coughs, so Gabriel pounded his back to help him through it.

When he'd recovered, Castiel said, “So you are disappointed.”

Gabriel inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, the grey smoke filtering weirdly in the dusty afternoon light, motes dancing through its haze.

“No, Cas,” he said. “I can't judge you for anything you did. Hell, I stole enough when we were kids.”

“You did?” Castiel asked, surprised.

Gabriel shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I mean, Dad didn't always know how long he'd be gone, you know? Sometimes he wouldn't leave quite enough. Not often, just sometimes.”

Castiel stared out into the salvage yard as he held the cigarette to his lips.

It wasn't something he'd really thought about—how Gabriel had been forced to compensate for their father's lack of good paternal instincts. The things he'd had to sacrifice. He hadn't thought that Gabriel might have had to do some of the same things that he had, to survive.

So he said, “I didn't know.”

“I know.” Gabriel grinned. “I did that on purpose.”

“There was a lot I didn't know.”

Gabriel sighed, then took a very long pull. “Are we gonna have this fight?” he asked on the exhale.

Castiel shook his head. “No. I understand why you did it. I would've done the same for Samandriel.” He stubbed the cigarette out on the rail with a few quick taps, then dropped it to the ground, grinding it under his heel.

Gabriel watched him with cautious eyes.

“I just wish you hadn't had to,” Castiel said. “I wish—I wish none of us had to be in this. I'm sorry you had to do it first. Because as much as I was upset at you for lying to me, I'm glad that you knew. I'm glad you didn't think I was crazy.”

Gabriel grinned, but it was thin, watery. He clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Hey, that almost sounded like a _thank you_ , kid. So you're welcome.”

Castiel shrugged his hand off, but he was fighting a smile of his own. “Come on. Let's get back inside. We shouldn't be outside the wards for this long, not with what we just did. I'm sure Sam and Dean's bosses won't be happy.”

Gabriel made a face, but stubbed his cigarette out, too. “All right. Man, Heaven's a bunch of buzzkills.”

Castiel laughed quietly and turned toward the house. “I suppose so. I hope that now you can be civil to—”

A choking noise stopped him in his tracks, and he whirled around.

Gabriel was clutching his throat with one hand, the other hand gripping the rail. His eyes were wide and panicked, his mouth slightly open, his face already pale.

“Gabriel!” Castiel cried, rushing behind his brother and wrapping his arms around Gabriel's chest. He started pushing up beneath his ribcage, trying desperately to remember the Heimlich Maneuver from the time Brady had had to do it to him. “Gabriel, come on, come on—”

He felt a warm wetness on his hand, and looked over Gabriel's shoulder, not stopping the compressions. His stomach lurched at the blood on Gabriel's chin and on his own hand.

He doubled his efforts and cried out for Bobby, Sam, Dean, anyone.

He was on the return from a compression when Gabriel pulled away suddenly.

No.

When Gabriel _was_ pulled away suddenly. His body rocketed over the rail into the middle of the yard, where he landed on his side and skidded several feet, kicking up dust and grass. Crimson speckled the ground in a dotted line that followed his path, and Castiel stumbled down the stairs after him.

He fell to his knees beside Gabriel, who stared up at him with wide, glassy eyes. _Cas_ , he mouthed, and a shaking hand raised up to grab Castiel's shirt.

“Gabriel, come on, hang on, sit up for me,” Castiel stammered, slipping his arm under Gabriel's back to try to pull him up.

The force hit him like a brick in his solar plexus, blasting him aside with a bone-jarring pressure. He flew back several feet, and struggled to sit up, blinking the spots out of his vision.

“Well. You're either luckier or marginally more clever than I'd anticipated.”

The spots slowly coalesced into the same tall man that he'd seen before, in the Amboy house, in that room downstairs. He stood above Gabriel, his legs on either side of Gabriel's waist, but he was looking at Castiel.

“John,” Castiel said, then burst into a fit of coughing.

John's tight smile was poison.

“Seems like you've managed to get Sam screwed up enough in the head that he couldn't even follow a simple instruction, so I guess if you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself.”

“No,” Castiel gasped, struggling back up to his feet. He staggered forward, and got about four steps before a flick of John's wrist sent him sprawling.

“Yes. I'm going to do what I should have done in the first place, and then _you_ are going to do what _you_ are supposed to do. And everything will go as planned. Do you understand?”

“Don't hurt him,” Castiel begged, crawling over, hoping that John would allow that. “Please, just—take me, don't hurt Gabriel, please.”

John shook his head. “I'm sorry, Castiel. But that's not how this works. Everybody’s got a script here: you, me, your Hellspawn brother.”

Gabriel spat blood and glared up at the angel. “Leave my brother alone,” he said, choking on the words. “You fucker.”

John glanced down at him, then delivered a punishing kick to his ribs. Gabriel cried out, the sound fading into a groan, and John said, “I’m sure they’ll love that attitude where you’re headed, boy.”

The angel reached around to the back of his waistband and pulled out a knife.

It was a _knife_ he shoved through Gabriel’s heart.

Not even his angel blade—not that it would make a difference. Perhaps that was the point. Gabriel didn't _need_ the angel blade; he was equally dead, either way.

He was human, after all, and humans die so easily.

John locked eyes with Castiel as he yanked the blade free, lifting Gabriel's body up and letting it fall to the ground.

Castiel gave a wordless cry of horror and stumbled forward, coming to his knees by Gabriel, heedless of the angel still wielding a knife above him.

“Gabriel,” he whispered. “Gabriel, no, please.”

John crouched down by him, across Gabriel’s body, and took Castiel’s chin into his hand.

“You will do as you are told, child,” he said. “One way or another.”

Castiel stared into John’s eyes as he heard the sounds of Samandriel calling his name, Bobby yelling for Samandriel to stay back, footsteps that must have been Sam’s and Dean’s, but he didn’t move, just stared.

“Please,” he whispered.

John shook his head. “You’re asking the wrong person,” he said. “You know where to go.”

He disappeared just as Sam and Dean reached them.

Castiel cradled his brother’s body and began to weep.


	15. The Wild Ones: Chapter Eleven

  


The dirt at the crossroads was cold and firm.

All Castiel had been able to bring with him was a small hand shovel. He hadn’t been willing to risk rooting around the salvage yard for anything bigger, alerting anyone to his activities, so he’d grabbed the first thing he’d seen that could dig. Then he took off, walking to the nearest crossroads.

It was almost enough, now, almost the size he needed to bury the small wooden box he’d taken from Bobby’s shelf. He supposed he should be more alarmed than he was about the fact that grave dirt and the bone of a black cat were easier to find among Bobby’s possessions than a picture of himself, but it didn’t end up mattering because Bobby also had an instant Polaroid camera. He’d snapped a quiet picture in the yellowed light of the bathroom before leaving the house.

The box lay open on the ground and the picture stared up at him as he finished digging. Pale and drawn, he looked like what he was: a man going to the gallows. He hadn't known quite where to look while taking the picture, so his eyes were averted.

In some cultures he’d heard they thought cameras stole your soul.

He supposed that was a bit of a moot point.

He put the shovel aside and knelt on the ground, gauging the relative size of the box and the hole. It would fit.

This was for Gabriel, he thought. Gabriel, who was so much better-prepared, who knew so much, and who nonetheless was killed once Castiel got involved. Who should have had the best chance of any of the humans Castiel knew, except perhaps Bobby. But even then, Gabriel was young, strong, experienced.

If anybody should be lying in state at Bobby’s house, it should be Castiel. Not Gabriel.

They said they had to burn the body, because you never knew what sort of horrible things some creature might do with an empty human vessel. Angels couldn’t do anything, Dean told him, but demons were willing to possess dead bodies, and there were other monsters to worry about, too. Even Ruby had chimed in, saying that for once, Dean was right: if they didn't want a demon body-hopping into Gabriel, they should burn him.

Bobby said that Gabriel would have wanted his body burned; that it was an honorable hunter’s funeral.

Castiel begged them to wait. Told them he didn’t understand, that he just needed to be able to see his brother for a little while longer. He cried. He pleaded. And they said, okay. A wake. Just for one day.

Sam had been posted to Castiel duty, and he'd been startled to see the angel outside of his room. Sam had smiled ruefully, saying that he understood, which was a hideous lie—he didn't understand. The only brother he had that compared to Gabriel was Dean, and Dean was alive, sitting in the library and talking to Bobby. Sam didn't, couldn't understand.

He said as much.

"I'm not saying I understand what you're going through,” Sam said. “You're right. I can't. But I do understand what you're thinking. And believe me, Cas, this is not the right choice. Go to bed. We'll deal with this in the morning.”

Castiel had nodded unhappily and headed back into his room.

Trying to climb out the window had a similarly poor effect. Sam just materialized behind him and gently pulled him back in, shutting the window and giving him a look that was half sympathy, half irritation.

"You don't want to do this, Cas,” he said.

But the problem was that Castiel very much _did_ want to do this. Maybe not all of it, but he would do what it took to get Gabriel back, regardless of the consequences.

So he turned the fan on to Samandriel and pulled the blankets back from his brother's sleeping form. Being cold always gave Samandriel bad dreams, and he figured that right now, Samandriel had more fodder for nightmares than usual.

Fifteen minutes later, it worked. Castiel directed a sobbing, confused Samandriel outside to seek comfort from Sam, who was sufficiently distracted by Samandriel's distress that Castiel was able to sneak out the window successfully this time.

His arm still throbbed from where he’d cut himself to make an angel banishing sigil, painted on the leg of his jeans. He wasn’t stupid—he knew that Sam was going to realize he wasn’t in the house and figure out where he was, and that either Sam or Dean would come after him. But he knew what he was doing. He did.

He knew that this meant Hell, just like John wanted. And he knew that they meant to break him somehow, in a different way than Hell usually broke people.

He wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t terrify him. But it terrified him less than living with what he had brought on Gabriel.

And he knew, he did, what this would to do Samandriel. But Samandriel had two older brothers: one who knew what he was up against, who’d spent years training and preparing and making himself ready for the battles that he knew were coming—and one who had spent four years building up to the grand culmination of trying, and failing, to pickpocket an angel of the Lord.

Sam had said that the Novaks were in danger, and Dean had confirmed that Heaven would not stop until it had what it wanted.

This way, he would give Heaven what it wanted from him, and give Samandriel what he needed in Gabriel’s protection.

He’d been selfish long enough. He’d run away long enough. It was time to do his duty to his family.

With shaking hands, he lowered the box into the freshly-dug earth.

"Castiel.”

He couldn't muster up any surprise, only irritation and disappointment that he hadn't been able to finish burying the box. He looked up, already knowing what he'd see.

Sam stood in the middle of the road.

Castiel stood quickly, raised his hand to slap his leg—

Sam was there before he could finish the motion, gripping both of his wrists.

"Talk to me first,” he said. “Give me five minutes. Talk to me, and then if you still want to do this, I won’t fight you.”

"I don’t believe you,” Castiel said, struggling to free his wrists.

It didn’t work any better than it had at Sam’s motel room that first night.

"I know,” Sam said, guiding him a few yards away from the box and the grave he’d dug for it. “But please. Hear me out.”

Castiel pulled one more time, felt the unyielding pressure of Sam’s hands, and gave up.

"Okay. I’m listening.”

Sam studied him, then smiled, a slow, sideways grin that looked a lot like Dean’s. “If you try to make a run for the box I’ll catch you.”

Castiel glowered. “I _know_.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, then took both of Castiel’s wrists in one hand and used the other to chip away at the sigil on his jeans.

" _Sam._ ”

"Sorry. Just wanted to make sure I got my full five minutes.”

Castiel glared and waited.

Sam released his wrists, and Castiel crossed his arms. It was cold, and he’d left Dean’s jacket back at Bobby’s. He wasn’t sure how this crossroads deal business worked, but he didn’t think he’d really need a jacket. He’d either be right back to the house, or he’d be somewhere where jackets wouldn’t be required.

"What happened to Gabriel was not your fault,” Sam said.

Castiel scoffed.

"It wasn’t. He’s a part of this, too, Castiel, and that wasn’t your decision or his. It happened _to you_. It was done to you."

"He’d survived everything that was thrown at him until I brought you and your brother into his life,” Castiel said bitterly. “Demons and werewolves and _whatever_. He'd survived it all and protected me and Samandriel without even telling us. Then I show up with the two of you and he's dead."

_Dead_.

The word came out choked, halfway a sob, and Castiel clamped his lips together to prevent it from becoming any _more_ of a sob. He clenched his fists tight.

"They were after him anyway.”

Sam sounded tentative, like he wasn’t sure Castiel was done, but when there was no reply he continued.

"You have to know that. Hell was already trying to take him. Our brothers weren’t far behind.”

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Sam sighed. Castiel saw the way he ground his teeth, set his jaw, rolled his shoulders. He was building up to something, and Castiel was interrupting him.

"It’s supposed to make you stop _blaming_ yourself," Sam said with an audible effort towards patience that was only partly successful. "This is not your fault any more than it is Gabriel's. _I_ found _you_ , Castiel. If anyone but John is to blame here, it's _me_."

"You were trying to protect us,” Castiel said.

"And that was obviously a resounding success.” Sam’s voice was acerbic.

Castiel watched him carefully. A smile flitted on his face, but it had nothing to do with happiness. It was a loathing smile, full of a kind of self-hatred that Castiel knew very, very intimately. It looked wrong on Sam.

"If you do this, you’re giving John exactly what he wants.”

Castiel looked back toward the box, so small on the ground beside the pile of dirt. He laughed. “Yeah, well. Maybe sometimes the bad guy wins.”

"If you make this deal, Gabriel will come back only to be pulled right back into Heaven and Hell’s plans. You won’t be freeing him.”

"Better that he’s on Earth and fighting it, instead of just suffering for my mistakes in Hell,” Castiel said, his voice rising in volume. “If _his life won't be perfect_ is your plan for talking me out of this, you're wasting your time, because my brothers and I are experts at making do with imperfect lives."

"I know that.”

Sam folded himself down sitting. Castiel hovered uncertainly for a moment before Sam gestured for him to sit, too. He obeyed.

"I’m not asking you to be content with what happened to your brother,” Sam said. Castiel pulled a blade of grass out of the ground and began shredding it. “I’m just asking you to consider that maybe he wouldn’t want you to give in to Heaven’s plans.”

"I can’t let him stay there, Sam,” Castiel whispered. “I _can't_. I abandoned him once."

Sam huffed a laugh, and Castiel peered over at him. “We all have things to atone for, Castiel. I should know.”

"Does Dean know you’re out here, trying to talk me out of this?” Castiel asked.

Sam glanced back in the direction of the house. “Yeah. He does. He wanted to come out himself, but I told him to stay and protect Samandriel and Bobby.”

Castiel shifted, turning more fully to face Sam. “He wanted to come? To—what? Talk me into this, or out of it?”

"Out.” Sam rubbed his face, looking suddenly very tired. “He feels like he’s been tricked. And he has been. This is not what he fought for, and my brother has fought hard for Heaven. If he’s not sure that this is the Will of God, he’s not going to ask you to make these sacrifices. And he’s not sure, not anymore. Dean doesn’t want you to do this either.”

Well. Castiel leaned back, squinting up at the starry sky. When he was a child, he used to think about Heaven being up there, among the stars—he remembers his mother telling him stories about Paradise and gesturing up toward the clouds. It looked so inviting, back then, so soft and welcoming and comforting.

Now it looked cold, dead, like John’s eyes.

"I wish I could just not do it,” Castiel said. “But Samandriel needs Gabriel more than he needs me. Gabriel can do more. If you’re going to try to do this—try to stop this thing, this _Apocalypse_ from happening —he should be the one you bet on. Not me." Castiel looked over and met Sam's eyes. "If you need one of us on Earth, it's him."

"That’s not the choice,” Sam said. “It’s not you or him.”

"John begs to differ.”

"And you’re going to trust John?”

"What, you want me to trust _you_ instead?"

Sam drew back like he’d been hit, and Castiel felt his stomach drop.

"I didn’t mean—”

"Don’t.” Sam shook his head, took a deep, bracing breath, and Castiel felt terrible.

Seeing Sam stare off into the sky, just as Castiel had been, made him realize just how much Sam had given. Not just the risk he’d taken by disobeying orders, or angering his superiors. He’d given up his home, his family—he’d been prepared to give up Dean, all for the sake of what he thought was right. And what he thought was right was protecting Castiel and his brothers.

"I’m scared, Sam,” Castiel said, his voice small. He felt Sam’s attention snap back to him.

"You’re standing out here, thinking about sending yourself to Hell,” Sam said. “Of course you’re scared.”

"I say stupid things when I’m scared. It’s something of a Novak family trait. Perhaps it’s genetic.”

Sam laughed softly. “Believe me. Dean has been my closest brother for millennia. I get it.”

"You’ve been good to me. Better than I deserved. I mean, I didn’t make a great first impression, and you’ve done nothing but try to help me.”

Castiel felt the weight of Sam's eyes on him, but resisted for a moment before giving in and turning his face to the angel.

"You deserved every kindness I was able to give you,” Sam said, slowly and firmly. “And you deserved none of the things I let happen to you. If you don’t believe anything else I say to you, believe that.”

Castiel laughed hollowly. “Sure.”

Sam looked for a moment like he was going to say something, then sighed and ran a hand over his face.

"I think my five minutes are up, Castiel. What are you going to do?”

Castiel shivered. “I’m gonna go save my brother.”

Sam nodded. “Okay. One last proposition.”

Castiel glanced at him askance.

"You said you wouldn’t fight me.”

"Talking isn’t fighting. Do you want to hear my proposition?”

Castiel stood up, dusting off his pants, and Sam followed suit. He squinted up at the angel.

"I probably don’t.”

"I’ll go find Gabriel.”

A breath. Two.

"No. You’re still recovering from what John did to you.”

Sam rolled his shoulders back and Castiel heard again that faint rustling, the whisper of wings. “I’m still an angel, Castiel. I’m still better-equipped than you.”

"I’m not going to _find_ him in Hell, Sam, I'm going to _trade myself_ for him. It's different."

"One way or another, one of us is going to wind up in Hell. It’s _not_ different. If you go, you will be a bartered soul and believe me when I say that whatever horrors you're imagining, you aren't close. They will tear you apart, Castiel, until you are willing to do whatever they say."

"That’s what they’re doing to Gabriel,” Castiel said, though he felt faint. “Sam, that’s what they’re doing to my brother, I can’t—”

"Even in Hell, the demons fear us,” said Sam. “If I go there, it’s as a warrior, not as a victim. Castiel. Let me do this.”

Castiel shook his head, kept shaking it, even though he was starting to feel sick.

"No. No. I’m going to do this. I’m going to save my brother and you _promised_ not to stop me. Now get out of my way."

He pushed past Sam, feeling the way the angel moved out of his way because of _course_ Castiel couldn’t push past him, of course he was an immovable object, just like his brother, who’d pinned Castiel so easily into the chair he’d wanted to leap up from back at the motel, and of course everything in his life was more powerful than he was.

He’d known that, when he was begging on the street corners and learning how to pick pockets.

He’d known that when he was turned away at restaurants and motels because one look at him had let even other humans know that he wasn’t anyone.

He’d known that when Sam had trapped him in the convenience store with a thought, had kept him there without having to lift a finger.

And now he was about to hand himself over, willingly, to the legions of Hell, to be tortured in this place of his brother. He was going to do exactly what John wanted him to do because one way or another, he would do as he was told.

One way or another, he would learn his place.

It almost didn’t surprise him when Sam appeared in front of him, between him and the box.

"You promised,” Castiel said wearily.

He looked up into Sam’s face. Perhaps the last time he’d see it as the angel prepared to launch himself into Hell in Castiel’s place.

"I’m sorry, Castiel,” Sam said, and pressed two fingers against his forehead.

He only woke halfway when Dean shook him, demanding to know where his brother was, what Sam had done. The crackle of small flames drew his attention to the wooden box, burning with its ingredients a little ways in the distance.

Dean shook him again, repeated his demand.

"He’s gone,” Castiel mumbled.

Dean was still shouting at him as he lost consciousness again.

He woke to the sun streaming through the dirty window into the library, and to three pairs of eyes staring down at him.

"Sam went to Hell,” Dean said, only halfway a question, without preamble.

"I tried to stop him,” Castiel muttered, pressing a hand against his eyes because the light was too bright.

"Dean tells me you were also tryin’ to sell your soul to the Devil,” Bobby said conversationally, like he was commenting on the weather.

"I had to do something. Gabriel’s in Hell and you need Gabriel.” Didn’t they understand that he was in no state to debate this? His head hurt and his heart hurt and the rest of him wasn’t doing much better. “But Sam wouldn’t let me. Nobody lets me do anything. I’m not useless but you all think I am.”

A soft _thud_ as Samandriel crashed out of his chair made Castiel wince because why was everything so _loud_? Did he have an angel hangover? Did angels give you hangovers? Or was that just something Sam had done special for him?

Samandriel’s eyes were bright with tears when Castiel opened his own to peer tentatively out. He reached out and his little brother took his hand.

"Don’t say that,” Samandriel said. “Don’t say we think you’re useless. Castiel, I don’t want you to kill yourself to get Gabriel back—he wouldn’t want that, either. I want you, too. I know you want Gabriel back and I want him back so bad but not if it costs me you, too.”

"So instead of costing you me, it’s going cost us Sam?” Castiel asked. He looked to Dean, who was staring out the window. “So we all have to lose a brother?”

"My brother made his choice,” Dean said, tightly like he was holding something back.

"So did I,” said Castiel. “And he _promised_ me he wasn't going to stop me, but he did."

Dean turned to him, then. Castiel had to stop himself from flinching back against the couch. Dean was shaking, his fingers curled around his knees, his lip pulling up into a snarl that he was apparently actively fighting. He took several breaths, perhaps counted to ten.

"Sam is an angel,” Dean said. “He knew what he was getting into. He did what he did with his eyes open.”

"I knew what—”

"You are a _child_ , and you had _no idea_ what you were doing," Dean shouted, leaning forward. Castiel was momentarily afraid that he was going to lunge at him, but he controlled himself at the last moment.

"I’m not a child, Dean. I’m twenty years old and I’ve survived more than most people my age. I may not be an angel, I may just be _human_ , but I’m an adult. And I should have my choices respected. I didn’t want your brother to do this. I _didn’t want it_ , Dean, I—”

Samandriel was wrapped around him before he even fully realized he was crying. He collapsed, letting Samandriel pull him off the couch and onto the floor where he held him tight.

"I’m so tired of people being hurt for me,” Castiel managed through his sobs. “I didn’t want Gabriel hurt and I didn’t want Sam hurt, and Samandriel—”

"This is not your fault,” Samandriel said. “Castiel, it’s not.”

He let Samandriel rock him, soothe him like no fourteen year old should know how to do. He wondered how many times his little brother had had to do this for Gabriel. How many times Gabriel had had to do this for their father or Bobby.

He wondered how he’d missed this, how he hadn’t seen it all those years, the people around him scrabbling to pick up the pieces of each other’s lives.

"I didn’t want any of this,” Castiel whispered.

A soft sound, the quiet white noise of clothes shifting, signaled Dean’s movement off of his chair. Castiel opened his eyes and saw the angel come to sit by him.

"Good,” he said. “You’re gonna need to not want it. If you want my brother’s sacrifice to be worth it, you’re gonna have to say no to a hell of a lot more tempting things than throwing yourself into Hell. Are you ready for that?”

Castiel shook his head, paused, then nodded.

"I think Sam took away the only bone I had to throw to John,” he said weakly. “I don’t want him to win. I don’t want to help him.”

Dean nodded, too. “Good. That makes four of us.”

_Four_. Castiel swallowed down the lump in his throat that promised fresh tears. “What do we do?” he asked, hoping that Dean would know what he meant.

The angel seemed to, and the smile faded from his face. “We wait,” he said. “Nothing else we can do. There’s no telling how long it’ll take Sammy to find Gabriel, if he can.”

"If?” Castiel echoed.

Dean shut his eyes. “It’s Hell, Cas. There’s a lot that can go wrong. We just...give him a chance. We just wait.”

Bobby stood and shut the curtains, and Castiel thought that was the right thing to do.

The day seemed too bright for this task, too bright for sitting and waiting to see who had lost family that day.


	16. The Wild Ones: Chapter Twelve

  


Twenty-three hours.

It had been precisely twenty-three hours since Sam dove into Hell to find and rescue Gabriel, and there had been no sign of them.

Dean had said that would be the case. That it was all or nothing. Sam couldn’t get a message from Hell to Earth, so the only way they’d hear anything was if he came back, with or without Gabriel.

Castiel knew that he wouldn’t come back alone. He was pretty sure Dean knew that, too.

Samandriel tried his best to make things normal. He cooked a breakfast that nobody ate, although Dean made a valiant effort. Castiel wasn’t sure that eating came naturally to angels, although Dean had certainly given it a good shot with the pie that first night, but he managed a few bites of eggs and a single piece of toast this time, which was more than Castiel could force down.

Bobby took his coffee with whiskey. This time, when he offered it to Castiel, he accepted it.

Dean took some, too, though he made the offhand remark that it would take considerably more alcohol than Bobby had in his possession to get an angel drunk.

The fact that it could happen at all was the first thing that day to make Castiel grin, and even then, it stuttered out like a badly-wired light bulb before long.

Castiel cleared their breakfast and washed the dishes, because it kept his hands busy and the white noise from the faucet drowned out the thoughts that chased themselves around his head. He could drown out some of the useless guilt he felt by at least keeping his family’s dishes clean.

He dropped a glass on the floor and it cracked and split into three pieces, though it didn’t shatter. He stood there for a long moment, staring at it. Dean came up to him, put a gentle hand on his arm, and fixed the cup. He didn’t take his hand away until Castiel had stopped shaking.

They all tried to be useful.

Bobby flipped through four books about Hell, then stuck them all in the drawer beneath his desk. He looked pale, and poured himself some more whiskey, and Dean looked at him with an expression that was half sympathy and half some darkness that Castiel couldn’t name.

Even Ruby did her part. Castiel saw her speaking quietly with Dean—they'd cut her loose, nobody enjoying the humor in her plight quite as much with Gabriel gone. They'd conferred for a while, until Dean went into the kitchen and grabbed a small, shallow bowl. He placed it on the counter, took a knife from the knife block, and sliced open his forearm, letting the gushing blood pour into the bowl.

Castiel ran forward, though he stopped in front of Dean, his hands extended slightly but his body unwilling to get between the angel and the weapon.

" _Dean,_ ” he said.

Dean stared at him, wide-eyed. For a horrible moment Castiel thought that he was in shock, but he shook his head and took in a deep, ragged breath.

"Ruby needs the blood,” he said.

"That sounds like a really bad plan,” Castiel replied.

"For scrying. For—she thinks she can see Sam, Cas.”

Castiel fell silent, taking the knife from Dean's lax hand and turning on the tap, watching as the angel's blood ran down the drain in jewel-like rivulets.

"I can't say no to that.”

"I know,” Castiel said. “Do you need to wrap that up, or—?”

Dean shook his head, pressing a hand over the wound.

Castiel ended up bringing the bowl over to Ruby. He hadn't paid much attention to her since Gabriel's death, but she looked pale and somber. Perhaps it was just the general tone of the house that was rubbing off on her, or perhaps it was Gabriel's death and Sam's absence putting a crimp in her plans, but she was quiet. She looked up when Castiel approached, and held out her hands for the bowl.

"I'm not making any promises,” she said as she took the bowl into her hands.

"I'm not asking for any,” Dean said softly, sitting cross-legged in front of her.

He looked up at Castiel, expectant. Castiel sat down next to him.

Ruby looked between them, then sighed and settled into a cross-legged position as well. She held the bowl in her left hand and used her right middle finger to stir the blood within it. Castiel shifted uncomfortably.

"Clamabo ad angelum infra,” Ruby intoned. Castiel couldn't translate the Latin, but he saw Dean tense. “Clamabo ad angelum infra. Clabamo ad angelum—”

She froze, and Dean froze, and Castiel fought to keep his breathing steady. Ruby's eyes were black now, and her face was tilted slightly up and pointed directly between Dean's and Castiel's shoulders. Her lips were pressed together and pale. The blood bowl trembled in her hands.

"Sam. Your brother is calling on you. He—no. I know. I—Sam, behind you!”

Dean lunged forward, but Castiel grabbed his arm. Little as he knew about this, he couldn't imagine that touching Ruby while she was like this would be a good idea.

"Sam, you have to go faster, he won't be in that Circle. You have to—Sam?”

One, two, three, four, five eternal seconds passed, and Ruby's head snapped forward, her long hair falling over her face. When she lifted her head, her eyes were blue once again.

"What happened?” Dean's voice was thin, tremulous.

"He's...he's alive, Dean. He's alive,” Ruby said. Castiel knew from the way she said it that it was the only good news.

"You lost him,” Dean said.

Ruby pressed the heel of her hand against her temple. “I—yes. He couldn't talk anymore. He couldn't have his attention divided. If I'd talked to him longer he would have been killed.”

"He doesn't have Gabriel, does he,” said Castiel.

Ruby shook her head.

"I don't know why you expected _good_ news out of a bowl full of blood,” she said.

Her ashen, sympathetic expression contrasted with her harsh words. Strangely, Castiel believed that she was sorry.

Nobody made even a token attempt at lunch.

Dean was starting to look very pale by noon, and Castiel would catch him staring out the window to the porch like just looking hard enough would summon Sam’s—soul? Did angels have souls? Had he brought his vessel into the Pit? Castiel knew _so little_ about these creatures that sacrificed so much for him. But Dean stared like he could summon _Sam_ back to Earth with the intensity of his gaze.

Maybe he was calling him. Maybe his cold, pale, somber silence was only on one level of reality, only on the one Castiel could see, and the rest of him was calling out like a beacon. _Sam, Sam, home is here, come back home_.

Maybe on another level of reality, Dean sitting in the hall was a lighthouse for his brother.

By two o’clock, Dean had camped out by the hallway and would not be moved. Castiel tried to make sure that he was comfortable, although he couldn’t be. None of them could be, not while they were missing brothers.

He brought Dean his jacket, and the angel took it with a brief smile. He brought Dean tea, and he accepted it with a quiet _thanks_. In the end, at about half past five o’clock, while Bobby and Samandriel began to make a dinner that was probably just going to be thrown away in the kitchen, Castiel had no more things to bring to the angel in his vigil. So he walked up to him and sat down on the floor beside the chair Dean had brought.

He felt Dean’s eyes on him, but he just looked down at the rosary he’d picked up.

"Catholic?” Dean asked.

"I was brought up in the Church,” Castiel replied. “My mother was very devout. My father, too, though things changed once my mother died. I haven’t been to church in years.”

He peered up at the angel. “Is that bad?” he asked.

Dean said nothing for a moment, glanced out the window, and lowered his hand into Castiel’s hair. It was oddly comforting, the weight of the angel’s hand, the physical realness of it when everything seemed so unreal.

"You’re fine. You’re doing a good job, Cas.”

"I don’t remember many of the prayers.” Castiel frowned down at the rosary.

Dean bent down and took the rosary into the hand that wasn’t in Castiel’s hair, and ran his thumb over the smooth wooden beads. “Pray from your heart,” he said. “What do you want?”

"I want them back, and I want them safe.”

There was nothing else he could pray for, nothing else he would dare to ask for. What if he only got one request? What if he prayed for something trivial, and was granted that, but not Sam and Gabriel’s return? There was only one thing in the world to pray for.

"Then you didn’t forget the prayer that matters,” Dean said. He pressed the rosary back into Castiel’s hands. “Bring them back, keep them safe.”

"Should I say _please?_ "

That earned him a chuckle. “Couldn’t hurt, buddy.”

Castiel ran the beads through his fingers, and asked his last question. “Is anybody listening?”

Dean’s hand, which had been rubbing the back of Castiel’s neck, stilled. Castiel could barely hear him when he answered.

"I’m listening.”

Castiel slipped the rosary into the familiar position, and prayed.

_Bring them back. Please, keep them safe._

A new bead.

_Bring them back. Please, keep them safe._

A new bead.

_Bring them back. Please..._

Dinner at seven o’clock was as somber an affair as breakfast had been.

Always pragmatic, Bobby had not cooked much, just enough for all of them to push food despondently around their plates. Dean wouldn’t even come to the table, just stayed in his chair in the hallway, staring out the window.

"Watch them come back in through the back door, just to be contrary,” Bobby muttered while he picked at a collard green.

Castiel thought about replying, but he simply didn’t have the energy.

"We should eat,” Samandriel said, but he was stabbing his casserole without taking any bites. “We don’t know how long it’ll take Sam. It’s no good if we all starve to death in the mean time.”

"Dean's starting to look really worried,” Castiel said. “I think that he expected him back sooner.”

"How the hell is he supposed to knock down Hell’s gates and bring your brother back in fourteen hours?” Bobby grumbled. 

"It hasn't been fourteen hours for Sam,” Ruby said, prising a piece of carrot out of her casserole with a prong of her fork. “It's been months.”

Castiel choked. “ _Months?_ ”

Ruby frowned, then fiddled on her fingers. Castiel realized she was doing mental math. “About three months. So that's why Dean-o's freaking out. Sam's been fighting his way through there for almost three months.”

Months. Sam and Gabriel had both been in Hell for a quarter of a year.

Bobby stared at Dean.

Castiel followed suit.

The angel was hunched over, doubtless resting his chin on his hands as he stared out into the yard. _Sam, Sam, home is here…_

Castiel wondered what would happen to Dean, if Sam did not return.

If Sam did not return, that meant, of course, that Gabriel was not returning. And it would break Castiel, and it would break Samandriel, and it would break Bobby, but they were all of them already broken. They could break more. They could survive it. It would be difficult. Perhaps they would not survive it _well,_ and maybe they would not even survive it for _long,_ but they would press on.

That’s what humans did.

But Dean was not human. He had turned against his family and all he knew not only for the Novaks’ sake, Castiel knew—for Sam’s sake. Before he had any interest in helping Castiel for any purpose beside preparing him for his destiny, much less rebelling to take up humanity’s cause, he was willing to ward Sam against other angels, to help him hide, which surely must have been an act of rebellion in itself. Surely, Dean had committed some level of treachery for his brother, even before he decided to throw his hat into the ring wholesale.

_Me and Sammy, we’ve always been...off._

In that word, _off_ , there had been so many layers of love and frustration and fierce loyalty and all of the complicated, angry, hard-edged, soft-centered emotions that Castiel had always associated with brotherhood. In that word, _off_ , Dean had shown Castiel the empty places that the loss of Dean’s innocence before his Father’s throne had left in him, and had shown Castiel how Sam had filled those places. How Dean filled them with Sam.

No. Castiel was not at all sure that Dean would recover, if Sam did not come home.

"He’s a damn pitiful sight,” Bobby said, but his voice was soft and gentle and not unsympathetic.

The old hunter sighed heavily and stood up, taking up his untouched plate. He scraped the food into a tupperware, leaned back to pop his back dramatically, and said, “I’m gonna go talk to him.”

That left Samandriel and Castiel alone in the kitchen. Samandriel used that as an opportunity to scoot his chair closer and press his nose against his brother’s arm. Castiel lifted his arm and let his brother burrow close.

"Sam’s going to come back with Gabriel. Isn’t he?” Samandriel asked against Castiel’s ribs.

Castiel looked at Ruby. She met his eyes, then looked back down.

He rubbed circles against his brother’s arm with the palm of his hand. This was no time for lies. But neither was it time for cruel truths and crueler doubts, he thought.

"I believe in him,” he said. “I don’t think he’d do it if he thought it was hopeless.”

Samandriel turned and clung to him like he did when he was small, and their father was gone, and Gabriel was too angry or too sad or too scared himself to both _hold down the fort_ (and oh, now that Castiel knew what that meant, how could he ever not have been scared?) and comfort his baby brother. The job would fall to Castiel, then, who always accepted it without complaint, and Samandriel would run into his arms and wrap his skinny limbs around him and Castiel would hold him until he wasn’t shaking anymore.

He wasn’t sure how long that would take, this time, or if there was anything he could do to stop the shaking.

It didn’t matter.

He held his brother.

Samandriel fell asleep at midnight. Castiel checked and re-checked all of the sigils before going back downstairs, where Bobby and Dean were both set up by the door. He was at the foot of the stairs, and Bobby hadn’t heard him and Dean was perhaps not paying attention or just didn’t care, because they didn’t stop their conversation.

"If he doesn’t come back, you gonna go after him?” Bobby asked.

Dean had a cup of coffee in his hands, and so did Bobby. Dean stared down into his.

"He wouldn’t want me to,” he said quietly. “He’d want me to stay here with you.”

"And what do _you_ want, son?"

Dean was silent.

Castiel went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee.

He napped on the couch, brief moments of sleep snatched from the jaws of his crushing fear and increasing sense of grief, but they were no respite.

He dreamt of fire and chains, of Gabriel’s screams and Sam’s wings burning.

He woke to Dean’s hand on his forehead—the first time he’d moved from the hallway since early afternoon.

The angel passed a thumb over Castiel’s brow and said, “I’m thinking about it, too.”

The sun had risen and Castiel’s eyes opened again. He’d fallen back asleep, probably with Dean’s help, although he didn’t remember it, and had perhaps stayed asleep for an hour and a half, maybe two hours.

Dean was not in the library, and he was not in the hallway.

Castiel struggled to his feet and made his way into the kitchen, which was empty, the sun streaming drearily in through the windows, like the day wanted to be up as little as Castiel did. Like even the sun was not ready to rise in a world where Sam and Gabriel hadn’t come home yet.

The whole house was quiet—Samandriel was still asleep, and upon investigation, Bobby was also asleep. Ruby was nowhere to be seen, which probably meant she'd hidden herself down in the basement, which despite Bobby's threats to shove her in the panic room was where she'd taken to escaping.

And Dean was gone.

Castiel considered praying, but he thought that testing the wards like that was ill-advised. They’d attracted enough attention, and they had made enough people (and other things) angry. He didn’t know when he prayed to Dean whether or not anyone else could hear him.

So he was silent, but he took up the chair Dean had left in the hallway.

The sun had risen more fully now, more strongly than it had seemed to in the kitchen. It was a beautiful, bright, crisp day, a hint of rose still tinting the morning sky as the last of sunrise faded.

Castiel thought it a cruelty that the sky didn’t weep for his brother, for Dean’s brother.

He remembered this from when his mother died, that he hadn’t understood how people still went to work, how the sun still rose and set, how he was still breathing in and out when his mother was gone. The world should stop. It should _all_ stop, because there could be nothing good or worthwhile now that his mother was gone.

Gabriel was gone, now. Sam was gone. And the sun still rose, and it wasn’t fair.

The light shone down on the front yard of Bobby’s house, catching the dew on the grass and what shine was left on a few of the closer cars and on the edge of an angel blade and the dull brown of Dean’s jacket and—

_Oh, God._

Castiel threw the door open.

Dean struggled under the weight of an unconscious Sam in one arm and a barely-conscious Gabriel in the other. Castiel ran outside, wards be damned, and slipped his shoulders beneath his brother’s arm.

"Gabriel,” he said. “Gabriel. You’re okay. You’re home. Gabriel, it’s Castiel. Can you hear me?”

"Give him a sec,” Dean grunted, shifting Sam’s weight. His brow was furrowed, but even that didn’t stop the smile that kept blooming and fading on his face.

"They’re home,” Castiel said.

"They’re home,” Dean agreed, and they both smiled the helpless, aching smiles of the desperately relieved.

Sam and Gabriel both regained full consciousness in less time than Castiel would have guessed, thanks in large measure to Dean’s impatience.

He could have let them rest and recover on their own, he'd said, but he'd also said _fuck that_ because his little brother was back.

Dean disappeared with Sam pretty much immediately after he woke up, although they were still in the house—Castiel could hear them down in the basement, and from the look of concern on Dean’s face right before they vanished, he was pretty sure Dean wanted to make sure Sam hadn’t gotten messed up somehow before he let his brother be around the humans. The sounds from the basement were quiet, but he could hear what sounded uncomfortably like Sam coughing, and broken sounds almost like sobs.

Gabriel came to more slowly. Dean warned them before he left with Sam that Gabriel was likely to be disoriented and more than a little scared when he woke. So when Gabriel’s eyes opened, Castiel held his breath.

Gabriel blinked heavily, looking for all the world like he just had the worst hangover of his life, but eventually his eyes opened fully. He was quiet—so quiet that Castiel worried for just a moment, just one panicked second, that somehow Gabriel had left his voice in Hell.

But then he whispered, “Cas?”

"I’m here, Gabriel,” he said, softly, barely more than a whisper himself. He put a tentative hand on Gabriel’s arm, but took it away when his brother flinched. “You’re home.”

Gabriel’s eyes darted around the room, falling on Bobby, on Samandriel, then back to Castiel. “ ‘S this a trick?” he asked.

Castiel shook his head. “No. Sam got you out.”

"Sam,” Gabriel said, and tried to struggle up sitting. Castiel didn’t touch him again, but put his hands up in front of him, asking him to stop. Gabriel was only halfway up, and let himself fall back to the couch. “Cas. Sam?”

"Downstairs with Dean,” Castiel said. “I promise, Gabriel, he’s here. They’ll be back soon. You both came back.”

Gabriel smiled weakly, and closed his eyes. Castiel felt another surge of panic, but it was quelled when his brother looked up at him. “You didn’t make the deal, did you?” he asked.

Castiel shook his head. “Sam wouldn’t let me.”

"You _tried_?" It was the strongest Gabriel had sounded, so Castiel didn't even mind the implied _you idiot_. He didn't even mind it when Gabriel actually said, "You idiot!"

"I didn’t do it,” Castiel said. “Sam saved you. Not me.”

Gabriel waved an accusatory finger vaguely in the air. “When I’m back to fighting shape, we’re gonna have a talk about demon deals, Cas. And then we’re gonna have a fight about it. And I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Castiel couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “Probably,” he agreed.

He moved aside so Samandriel could take his place beside their brother, watching as Gabriel suppressed his immediate instinct to freeze when touched so that Samandriel could give him a gentle, cautious hug.

Castiel jumped a little when Bobby put a hand on his shoulder. He looked over and saw his father in all but name smiling at him.

"You all right, boy?”

Castiel nodded and leaned heavily against him. “I’m all right.”

It was even the truth.

Dean and Sam came back upstairs about an hour later, and Sam went immediately to kneel in front of Gabriel.

Castiel watched the smile spread across his older brother’s face as he looked up at the angel who had saved him. He’d never seen Gabriel look like this before.

He supposed Gabriel had never been saved before, though.

"How are you feeling?” Sam asked him, his hands fluttering over Gabriel’s arms, not quite touching but still searching, his eyes raking over him.

"I’m okay,” Gabriel said, putting a hand over one of Sam’s. The angel stilled, looking startled before a soft, surprised smile bloomed on his face. But Gabriel wasn’t smiling anymore; he was looking over Sam’s shoulder. “But Sam, your wings—”

Sam put his hand atop Gabriel’s and squeezed gently. “They’ll heal,” he said. “Dean is gonna take care of me. They’ll heal, Gabriel.”

Castiel heard Dean walk up behind him. He asked, very softly, “Can he see them?”

"Sam’s wings? Not anymore. But probably on the way up.” Dean took in a deep breath, and Castiel watched the ebb and flow of emotions over his face—the fear that was still receding, the bone-deep relief, the fondness, the pride. “And they are hurt. His wings. They’re...burnt. Torn.”

"He saved my brother.” Castiel tried to imbue those words with all he felt about the fact, but he wasn’t sure much was audible beyond the tremor, beyond the tears that started welling in his eyes as he watched Sam—injured, tortured, brainwashed Sam—tend to Gabriel, fuss over Gabriel.

Dean scoffed. Offended, Castiel looked up, but the angel was still fixated on his brother. “Of course he did,” Dean said. “That’s what Sam does. He saves people.”

"That’s what you do, too.”

Dean looked down at him, a vulnerability in his face, then he grinned. “I guess it’s what we all do, huh?”

"They're okay?”

Castiel and Dean turned, and saw Ruby hovering in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself. She looked hesitant, unsure. It was the first time Castiel had seen that in her. Her eyes kept flicking to Sam and Gabriel.

"They're okay,” Dean said. “And that's partially due to you. So. Uh. Thanks.”

Ruby startled, staring up at Dean as if he'd started speaking Klingon.

"Sorry, say that into my good ear,” she said, pulling her hair back and cupping her ear.

"I said _blow me,_ ” Dean shouted.

"Fucking hell, Dean, you're setting a bad example for the children,” Ruby said, covering Castiel's ears with her hands before he shrugged her off.

Sam looked up, then, and gestured for them to come closer. They obeyed, and Castiel took a seat on the floor at Gabriel’s feet. Dean stood behind him, Ruby further behind him.

Sam looked around at all of them. “You all need to know how angry we have made _literally_ everyone in Heaven and Hell,” he said.

"Very, is the answer,” Gabriel said. Sam turned an affectionate glare on him, and he shrugged. “Just wanted to clarify.”

Sam kept glaring for a moment, then relented. “He’s not wrong.”

"Let ‘em bring it,” Dean said.

Everyone turned to him. He was uncowed.

"Seriously. We can take it. First you got the two weirdest angels in the garrison—forget the garrison, in all of the Host. Then you got three kids brave enough to say _fuck it_ to what everybody told them was Heaven and Hell's immutable plans for the Apocalypse, tough enough to survive up to that point, and stupid enough to hang out with said weirdest angels. _Then_ you got Hell's most aggravating turncoat, and —Bobby."

"Thanks,” Bobby said, dry, but with a smile threatening.

"Kid? I’m twenty-four,” Gabriel complained.

"Also, I'm right here,” Ruby protested.

Dean fixed them all with an unimpressed look.

"So let 'em bring it,” he repeated. “We can take it.”

Sam rolled his shoulders and Castiel could see his wince, the tightening of his features, but he set his jaw and grinned. “I mean, we can’t exactly unring this bell. Heaven knows what we did, and Hell sure does, too.”

"So we do this,” Dean said. “We do this thing.”

Castiel looked up at him, and said, “What about...rebelling? Falling?”

Sam looked up at his brother, too, and then everyone’s attention was on Dean, who was still and quiet, looking down at Castiel like he was trying to figure out a puzzle.

Finally, he said, “I pledged my loyalty to my Father. He made you, and He loved you. If John doesn’t understand that, if Heaven doesn’t, that’s not on me. I’m going to do what I was made to do.”

Castiel put a hand on Dean’s leg, and the angel grimaced and rolled his eyes. “We don’t have to have a Hallmark moment about this.”

"But we can if we want to?” Gabriel asked, lifting his arms out as though to ask for a hug, and Dean rolled his eyes harder. “C’mon, you big lug, bring it in.”

"'M not givin’ you a hug,” Dean muttered, but he was grinning, and Sam was grinning past his pain, and Gabriel made grabby fingers. “I will Fall from Grace for you idiots, but I am _not_ gonna 'bring it in'."

"Come on, Dean,” Sam said.

"Yeah, _come on, Dean,_ " Gabriel agreed.

Dean shook his head. Sam reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, bringing him crashing to his knees and wrapping his arms around him.

Castiel barely heard Sam’s words as he asked, “Are we gonna be okay?”

Dean’s voice was rough, choked, and he said, “Yeah, man. We’re gonna be okay.”

Gabriel rolled off the couch and onto the angels, and Samandriel joined them.

Castiel smiled as he watched them, and then laughed when Dean glared out from the pile and said, “You two assholes want your one chance for a hug, and believe me when I say this is your _one chance_ , or you just gonna watch?”

Bobby sighed, muttered something about being too old for this shit, but lowered himself down and put his arm around Samandriel.

Castiel crawled over, and Dean’s strong arm pulled him in, and Castiel reached out and grabbed Ruby, who gave a yell but succumbed quickly and with surprising quiet.

The road ahead was long, dark, and probably ended in a cliff.

But surrounded by his brothers, the man who raised him, and the angels and demon who had somehow fallen into their lives, he thought maybe Dean was right.

Maybe they would be okay.


End file.
